King of the Woods, or Trivial Pursuit

Part 10 - Tongue

Ray flipped a completed form onto a second, smaller pile. He had finished about a quarter of the salvage logging permits. His stomach gurgled, and he mourned the loss of his Snickers.

Byron tapped Ray's shoulder and said, "I'm out. You coming over?"

"I'm staying," Ray said. "I need to finish these."

"You fail to grasp the essential nature of government work, grasshopper," Byron said. "Come smoke a bowl with me and learn non-attachment."

"I missed a lot of work today," Ray said. "And Tallahassee-."

"Tallahassee can eat me," Byron said. "Don't be lame."

"You're the one who asked Jim to give me more work," Ray said.

"I just didn't want him to fire you," Byron said. "Do what you got to do. I better visit one of my lady friends, anyway. The queue's getting a little long."

"Queue?" Ray said.

"One of them's British," Byron said. "See ya."

"Wait," Ray said. "I'm dying. Do you have anything to eat in your truck?"

"Just some Pop-Tarts," Byron said. "And you shouldn't be eating that crap."

"You eat that crap," Ray said.

"I've got nine reasons I'm allowed to," Byron said.

"Nine?" Ray said. "Wait, don't!" Too late. Ray's hunger had slowed his reaction speed. By the time he'd objected, Byron had already lifted his shirt and begun pointing at his abs. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

"Number nine is that they fit my macros," Byron explained.

"Why would you think that I want to see that?" Ray said.

"I don't," Byron said. "But what's the point of crafting a masterpiece if you can't put it on display?"

"I hate you," Ray said.

"Come on," Byron said. "You want chocolate or rainbow sprinkles?"

-

Ray entered the parking lot and walked over to the injured pine tree. The jackhammer still lay on its side, but the tree's root no longer glistened. The sap had darkened and thickened, forming a scab. The scab radiated warmth and sloughed off when Ray touched it. Beneath the scab, the root looked raw and exposed, but whole. Ray's arm tingled from his fingertips to his shoulder. He turned his right hand palm-up. No trace of his injury remained, not even the thin white scratch.

"Byron," Ray said. "Would you come here for a second?"

Byron held up two boxes of Pop-Tarts and said, "Which one do you want?"

Ray walked circles around the pine tree, examining it from top to bottom. He placed his hand on its trunk; nothing happened.

"It's a simple question," Byron said, walking closer. "If you don't decide, I'm giving you the sprinkles."

"Something's wrong," Ray said. Byron dropped the Pop-Tart boxes and ran towards the tree.

"Call it in!" Byron said.

"Call what in?" Ray said. He looked down. The jackhammer operator lay at his feet, staring unblinkingly at the sky. One of the operator's arms pointed up, the other was flexed at his side. Blood dribbled out of his mouth and down the side of his neck.

Ray reached out to touch the operator.

"Don't move him," Byron said. "He's got a concussion. Jackhammer must have caught him under the chin." The operator's arms began to relax. Byron held his ear next to the operator's mouth.