Dueling Banjos

fiction by Jason Edwards

Jeremy Banjo and his brother Emeril standing back to back, in a field, wind softly blowing. Each armed with a Sig Sauer P210 loaded with only one bullet, hardened brass and steel core, one of those so-called “cop killers.” They start to take their paces. Jeremy doesn’t know it, but Emeril’s been practicing. His goal is to fire at exactly the same time as Jeremy, and hit Jeremy’s bullet with his own. He doesn’t want to kill his brother, but he certainly doesn’t want to be killed either. No, not at all. He’s in his late forties, he’s shorter than his brother, he’s certainly heavier, but he has that wonderful bushy mustache, and he’s well respected down at the firm, he still had his half of the trust in his nest egg, why would he want to die? Just because he’s been cuckolded? No, which is to say yes, there was shame in being cuckolded, surely, but not so much that a man needs to die. Not even his brother, the cuckolder, or whatever you call them.

A simple note, five words, “I slept with your wife, asshole.” Six words, actually, but Emeril’s not counting that last word, that emotional word. Or maybe he is. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how something as subtle as grammar can have such huge effect, or everlasting effect as it were, or deep ramifications, to belabor the point. Emeril takes his steps, barely keeping count, nearly lost in thought, thoughts he’d had all the while. If the note had read, “I am sleeping with your wife,” Emeril would never have agreed to the duel. He’s no coward, obviously, just ask anyone down at the firm when the CEO is walking around pointing out things that are inefficient while Emeril matches him stride for stride, justifying. No, if Jeremy had claimed to be actively sleeping with Emeril’s wife, there would have been divorce proceedings on both sides, custody battles, perhaps a drunken attempt at revenge sex with Jeremy’s wife herself, no looker, but then Emeril never did like the skinny type.

Which confuses him because of course Jeremy does go for the skinny type and Emeril’s wife is assuredly not that, no not at all. Which was probably why he wouldn’t claim to be actively sleeping with her, just that he slept with her the one time. And even there, a confession like that, blurted out on a single piece of paper, typed out and with Jeremy’s sloppy signature beneath, that might have been dealt with using the usual anger and perhaps a drunken binge of sorts and some kind of public humiliation.

But poor Jeremy, adding that last word, that “asshole,” he was clearly ashamed of himself, knew he had done wrong, was disguising his self-hatred in bravado and insults, and so the duel was very much in order. Still, Emeril had no intention of killing his younger brother, no, he’ll shoot his bullet right when Jeremy does, the two bullets will hit one another, will ricochet to heaven knows where, hopefully some tree, and in the rush of fear Jeremy will see what a fool he was to seek death for something as petty as adultery. Or double adultery, as it were.

Afterall, they are brothers, had known each other all of Jeremy’s life, and their wives were, what, recent additions, only around for half of that time? When this is all over, of course, Emeril will take the matter up with his betrothed, talk to her in a stern voice, and show her a little of what the CEO gets when he comes stomping through the firm’s corridors, oh yes she would!

The duel arranger, a tired old man, looks on, seemingly impassive.

Three steps now, two, one. Turn. There he is, the short fat little fuck. The squat little motherfucker. Because that’s what he is, his older brother, a real motherfucker. He fucked his wife! The mother of his children! Nevermind that he hated his wife, hated his children. Hated them. Hated his brother, always had, since he was born, Jeremy doesn’t remember being born, doesn’t remember much of his childhood, doesn’t remember much of anything except maybe high school when he was the shit and he had more sex than was probably legally allowed for regular people. But if he ever went to a psychic, and if they weren’t all bullshit, and she hypnotized him and regressed him to his birth, he’s pretty sure he’d come out screaming and see that fat little fuck with his propeller beanie and his bow tie and his lollipop and think to his one-minute-old self “that’s my older brother? Fuck me!”

Which wasn’t the point, even though it sort of was, Jeremy is secretly glad to have this chance to shoot this stupid motherfucker and kill him and be justified in it. He lifts the gun and points, a scowling smile on his face.

Which makes him so angry, so incredibly angry that this little cuntlicker is giving him exactly what he’d always wanted. Jeremy hates that, hates how Emeril is always there for him, protecting him, taking care of him, bailing him out of jail and getting him jobs and talking the lawyers into advancing Jeremy’s portion of the trust when bills are due and his harpy of a wife was harping about some harpish thing or another. Skinny broad. Not that Emeril’s wife is any better. Yeah, if Jeremy had to choose, he’d choose the skinny one over the fat one too. So it makes sense that Emeril had fucked her.

And so what, he hated the bitch, let them have each other, there were plenty of young things fresh out of high school who recognized his picture next to the trophies in the trophy case. But the audacity! Sending him a note! “I must confess, dear brother, I had unnatural relations with your wife. I expect you’ll demand satisfaction. Pistols at dawn?” And signed with that effeminate scrawl. Twenty words, one for every year he’d been married to the whore. And so, yes, Jeremy is looking forward to this, looking forward to killing this little faggot for having “unnatural relations” with his wife, the mother of his children! What the hell were “unnatural relations” anyway? Did he put it in her ass or something?

The duel arranger allows himself a very small entirely imperceptible grin.

Emeril’s hand isn’t shaking, its steady as a rock, he’s sighted the barrel of the Sig Sauer P210 “Legend” perfectly inline with Jeremy’s, finger resting on the trigger, pressure there, not much, just enough. Jeremy squeezing his gun as tight as he can, his palm and thumb three fingers but his index finger won’t move. Why won’t it move? Emeril is waiting. He needs to see Jeremy pull the trigger. The bullets fly so fast, he has to time it just right. The guns are heavy. Their arms are getting. Has it been ten minutes, standing there, 47 years, or three seconds?

The duel arranger presses a button, and both guns go off. The Banjos drop. Clean shots. The duel arranger walks over to Jeremy, confirms he’s dead, walks over to Emeril. He was worried Jeremy would miss. Hard to do at this range with a Sig Sauer P210, but still.

The duel arranger retrieves the guns, wipes them down, puts them back in the box. He’ll clean them later. He calls the coroner. Walks over to his car, has a cigarette. He has more letters to write. The dueling business isn’t what it was, but it’s getting better. The Banjos come from a very large, very rich, very stupid family.