It is Friday the 13th, and the wall clock, although it had been
keeping perfect time, is stopped at 10:28. In the illusory half-light,
sourceless and unnatural, the room and its inhabitants are distinctly
revealed.

The Fat Man sits on the couch, his feet on the coffee table; he sips a
Dr. Pepper. He is unaware of the small piece of paper stuck to the
bottom that reads “Poison.” He is watching the unchanging television
screen, where a horseman sits astride his motionlessly galloping horse.

Hal, who put the “poison”’ on the drink, watches with evil glee as
the Fat Man drinks. He has just earned two points in the ongoing game
of “Assassin.” He, however, is unaware of the small alarm clock taped
to the bottom of his chair. When it rings, Chaim, also an amateur killer,
will have earned five points.

Chaim, the mad bomber, who bears a remarkable resemblance to
Charles Manson, is sitting frozen in mid-gesture at the paper-strewn
table, where he is refereeing a game of D&D. Pavel and Gerry, his
players, are halted in their seats while rolling motionless dice.

Chet and Didi are playing with the five-week-old kittens, Didi
showing Chet the correct method of lifting one. Joanie stands behind
Chaim, admiring the new pewter 25mm uglies that face Gerry’s two
magicians.

The cat, ignoring her children’s anguished mewings, sleeps soundly
in the corner.
 

Roberto is conspicuously absent, unaccounted for.
 

The lights come up, the television springs into action, the dice fall to
the table, and life, of a sort, returns to the group of gamers.

“You no more understand human rights than did Joe Stalin,” the
Fat Man chides Chet, and finishes his drink.

“That was a vile thing to say,” exclaims Didi airily. “It was true, but
vile.” She winks at Chet, and hands him another kitten.

“You’ve just been poisoned, Fat Man,” crows Hal.

What?” He inverts his empty bottle. “You baboon!”

“Right on!” acclaims Chaim from the table, applauding, in a sense,
his own future triumph as well as Hal’s. He checks his watch. Any
second now, he muses, and grins inwardly.

“Crumb!” barks Gerry. “Fish, lice, and insect salad!”

“Go ahead and roll it again,” smirks Pavel. “It won’t be any
better.”

“Gimme your calculator, Chet, or I’ll break all your arms.”

“Here,” groans Hal. “I’ll take it.” He stands up and passes the
calculator to Gerry. From there he walks into the kitchen, followed by a
unanimous cry of “Get me one too!” At that point the alarm clock rings,
theoretically blasting Hal’s empty chair into hypothetical, smoking
splinters.

“Ants!” curses Chaim; under cover of the “bomb’s” distraction,
Hal poisons Chaim’s coke.

The evening wears on. Pavel and Gerry each simultaneously
doublecross the other, throwing their lot in with the goblins. Chaim
unpoisons his drink (by noticing the label). While watching television
the rest argue politics, except Joanie, Didi, and Chet, who argue about
television and ignore politics.

“Whaddya mean, you’ve never seen The Magnificent Seven?
Everybody’s seen -”

“How many dice has he got?”

“No, no: by the back of the neck.”

“-And in a free-market economy-”

“Is there any more Coke?”

“-So when the banditos ride into town-”

“How many Dreiburgundians does it take to quell a riot?”

“Who poisoned my milk?"

“Three whole weeks and you’ve only finished one turn?” 

“War in the Pacific is a good game. Slow, maybe -”

“Where’s Roberto?’

“Sure, but he promised that when running for governor in ‘68-”

“Gimme a quarter, or I’ll tell Pavel where the bomb is.”

“-And then Yul Bynner-”

“No saving throw?!”
 

At 11:30 Roberto arrives secretly, having parked three blocks
away. Silently, he climbs the tree to the roof; carefully he places a
gigantic firecracker inside a coffee can. With a burning cigar for a fuse,
he estimates six minutes’ delay. He jumps down, picks up the bag of
drinks he’s brought, and saunters in. “Hello,” he drawls.

“Quick, it’s Roberto!” shouts Chaim. “Where’s my slingshot?”
Welcomed more for the drinks than for himself, the roofwalker sits on
the couch by the Fat Man.

“What’s on t.v.?” he asks casually, bracing himself for the explosion.

“Some crummy cowboy movie,” Chet explains.

“It’s a great movie, you clown!” objects the Fat Man angrily.
Roberto grits his teeth, waiting for the firecracker.
 

    While he fights the goblins, I’ll knife him in the back.
    I can’t wait for them to open that secret door.
    As he defends, I’ll fireball him.
    He didn’t check! I could have poisoned him!
    Those guys are crazy.
    When will it be our turn to D&D?
    Stupid Cigar!
    I’ll never admit it to him, but this movie’s not bad.
    Yeah! Stupid Banditos! Get him, Yul!



At midnight the room freezes back into immobility. The lights fade,
and the ghostly unlight grayly illuminates the scene.

“You have seen enough?” said The Spider to The Snake.

“I have seen enough,” replied The Snake to The Spider.

“What is your conclusion?” asked The Spider.

“They are totally alien to us,” said The Snake. “We cannot comprehend
the trending of their thoughts. Therefore they are of use to us
only as food sources.

“Are we then agreed?”


“Your terms are wholly adequate.”

The Spider and The Snake pressed each their imprint upon the
Document of Accord, and left it as a seal upon the closed subspace of
gray, unmoving timelessness.