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The Duel

by Michael James McFarland

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“A what?! What did you say? A duel?”

“You heard me, Vanderbilt. D-U-E-L. Duel.”

“You mean like with pistols… ten paces, turn and fire? That kind of duel?”

“Something like that,” John Lawrence affirmed, hands planted on his hips, the breeze blowing casually through his stylish hair, making him look like a young Michael Douglas, right down to the ass-shaped cleft in his chin. Twenty years old and living life like it was a goddamn movie. That was Lawrence all right. This was just the latest example of his madness.

A duel.