They're Actually Both Quite Stupid

By

Russ Bickerstaff

"We are clever," she said looking fondly at him. His eyes looked up at hers. He nodded.

"We are clever," he agreed. There was a moment of smug silence between the two of them that drifted around in the tiny corner of everything they found themselves resting in.

"Actually," she said rubbing his shoulders gently with her hands, "I think you're far more clever than I am." She smiled and leaned-in to kiss him on the cheek.

"Oh?" He said raising his eyebrows. "What makes you say that?" She said nothing in reply, walking slowly across the room to have another sip of whiskey. The heels of her boots echoed against the bare walls of the shadowy room they shared for the tiniest fraction of eternity.

"Anyone with the right perspective on things can do what I've done," she said with a sly smile. "It takes a real genius to do what you've done." She took a sip of whiskey and smiled at him from the furthest distance that the room would allow as she leaned casually against the table on which the bottle of whiskey rested.

"I don't follow your logic," he said as he attempted to shift his weight a bit in his seat. He gazed into the same shadows that she had been gazing into for some time while he was sleeping. What he found there was not the slightest bit comforting. He glanced up at her again and saw that she was, in fact, looking down at him with what appeared to be genuine respect with just a hint of envy. It made him feel uneasy.

"Well," she said looking vacantly up at the ceiling as her free hand waved a bit, "I suppose it's the way in which you have been able to master the situation with such a command over every last detail. I could only have done what I had done in response to the decisions you made." She looked down at him and took another sip of whiskey.

"Oh," he intoned, unable to keep the coldness out of his tone. "I assure you," he said clearing his throat, "I had no intention of things ending up quite as they have." She nodded thoughtfully at this, turning to him with a smile.

"Conscious or not in the decisions you have made, you were very clever about positioning things as you have." She poured a little more whiskey into the glass. "After all," she said putting the stopper back on the bottle, "you have been so clever to allow me into a position where I am now forced to do all of the work. Like any great leader or executive, you have moved yourself into a position of leisure. You don't have to do a thing."

With that, she walked over to him, put the glass of whiskey to his lips. She tipped it. He was forced to swallow or suffer the consequences of smelling like whiskey for the foreseeable future. The bite of the whiskey dispersed its way through him. He winced a little, feeling the warmth and the wobble of the chair on which he sat. He took a deep breath and whispered something somewhat unspeakable beneath it. She clucked her tongue in response.

"What's the matter?" There seemed to be some genuine concern in her voice. It made him every bit as disoriented as he needed to be in order to respond to her.

"I suppose that if circumstances were a bit different I might decide to change my mind and take some of the responsibility back from you." There was a brief silence after which she exploded into laughter.

"I think," she said between laughs, "that I might have been inclined to agree with you in other circumstances. But circumstances are such as they are and I can't say that I'm particularly interested in pursuing that line of thought." She had regained her composure and looked down at that which his gaze was fixated. "Oh," she said. "Perhaps you want your keys back." He looked up at her a bit uneasily.

With that, she walked over to him, put the glass of whiskey to his lips. She tipped it. He was forced to swallow or suffer the consequences of smelling like whiskey for the foreseeable future. The bite of the whiskey clawed its way through him. He winced a little, feeling the warmth and the wobble of the chair on which he sat. He took a deep breath and whispered something somewhat unspeakable beneath it. She clucked her tongue in response.

"What's the matter?" There seemed to be some genuine concern in her voice. It made him every bit as disoriented as he needed to be in order to respond to her.

"I suppose that if circumstances were a bit different I might decide to change my mind and take some of the responsibility back from you." There was a brief silence after which she exploded into laughter.

"I think," she said between laughs, "that I might have been inclined to agree with you in other circumstances. But circumstances are such as they are and I can't say that I'm particularly interested in pursuing that line of thought." She had regained her composure and looked down at that which his gaze was fixated. "Oh," she said. "Perhaps you want your keys back." He looked up at her a bit uneasily.

She walked in a bit of a staggered swagger over to him and she stuffed the keys into the rope that tied him to the chair in which he sat. He looked up at her in disgust. He would have tried to explain to her that the keys were of no use to him tied up the way that he was, but he knew that she would only reply that the keys were of as much use to her in her condition as they were to him in his condition. She wasn't tied up but she may as well have been.

She laughed again. The laughter reverberated against the walls and into the shadows of the tiny room in which they found themselves. He was tied to his chair. Not far from the control panel against which she was laughing which was not far from the table on which sat a bottle of whiskey under which rested a box of several more unopened bottles stacked neatly against each other. It was more than they would be able to get through before the air ran out in the airtight room that was in the middle of a large complex of airtight rooms that also housed the bodies of so many others. Elsewhere there were housings for so many vehicles that could carry enough explosive to have brushed atoms against atoms to end the world.

It all rests far beneath the surface to this day. In years to come it may be forgotten. In the years beyond that, it may disappear from the world entirely. One generation will become the next well beyond the politics that brought him to her. It will all be forgotten somewhere in the deepest depths that are at the top of the world far beneath the largest chunk of ice on the planet. In years beyond that it will all be under nothing but amnesiac reverberations of iceless water.

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Russ Bickerstaff is a professional theatre critic and aspiring author living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with his wife and two daughters. Last year his short fictions have appeared in over 30 different publications including Hypertext Magazine, Pulp Metal Magazine, Sein und Werden, and Beyond Imagination. His Internarrational Where Port can be found at: http://ru3935.wix.com/russ-bickerstaff.