Author #1
Luigi Reggio had spent four years of his life, four long and hard years, fighting the Frenchmen. He saw the English caper about and demand a 'peace without victims', and he and the rest of Venice sat by in disgust. Then he woke up one morning and found that the rest of Venice could care less about the suffering of any man.
Luigi had spent four of the best years of his life in a trench, and this is how they repaid him? A pension and the assurance that a war wouldn't happen again? It couldn't happen. Many of his old buddies agreed, but he was disgusted to find others he kept in touch with -- including all of those untouched by war, the women and debtors the Cardiucci administration had given the right to vote -- without exception, they supported the 'peace without winners'. The Doge was a fighting man himself. He had to understand the problem. He was coming to Trieste soon, to speak to the Veterans of Foreign Wars. The Doge would understand then, and Venice would take the peace it had earned. The peace that he had earned for it, and which its politicians were denying it.
Some days later, Luigi found himself at the VFW center. Doge Benito Cavalli spoke passionately about the need for a permanent peace -- the need to avoid revanchism and to leave sleeping dogs lie. The time for questions came, and Luigi asked Doge Cavalli -- once Field Marshal Cavalli, once hero of the Colonial Wars Cavalli, once rifle-toting Dane-slaying Lieutenant-at-Arms Cavalli -- why the sacrifice of the Venetian soldiers was not being honored more heavily.
The Doge sighed. "If we make the Frenchmen bleed to honor the sacrifice of the Venetian fallen, their brothers and children will, in time, make the same sacrifice." The other veterans chimed out in agreement. Doge Cavalli had what many considered quite a talent for turn of phrase.
The younger, less medal-bedecked and internationally-honored man sat down and brooded. Soon the speech was over, and the men with whom he fought in the trenches came to him. "Cavalli is truly an amazing statesman. He makes you think without lecturing to you. I've changed my mind -- I'll certainly be voting for him in '18..." And so on. Luigi felt nothing but rising disgust.
He saw a young man paste a broadside to the great iron fence of the Veterans of Foreign Wars -- announcing the GREAT VICTORY PARADE OF VENICE, to pass through Venice in a week. He knew what he had to do.
The next day, he went to another old comrade: Agosto. Agosto, who had lost an arm in the war, and who now sold arms lost in the war. Ironic, but he didn't see it that way. Agosto was the sort of dry, humorless man who couldn't fart in private without feeling embarrassed about it; he was a damn fine soldier, though, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. That was what Luigi needed right now. He strolled into Agosto's shop, bumping aside a fat man in dress almost absurdly over-formal for the smoky, ill-lit, illegitimate gun store. The robust gentleman merely muttered a bit more in a rushed Genoese accent and left the premises, slamming the door behind him.
"Ah, Luigi. I told you you'd be welcome here any given time, any given reason. Now's a fine time. Business's been pretty slow, which is a shame, because I've got a man who gets me the best War-vintage equipment. The best. In fact, I just got a Duodo '15 repeater. It's a lovely gun for hunting... which is what I assume you're here for, correct?"
Luigi drew in an uncomfortable breath of air. "Yeah, that's it. Hunting."
"I hope not hunting for frogs. No sport in that." Agosto gave him a skewed look. "In fact, I just spoke to the Genoese... monsignor that you saw leave the establishment on that subject, and he and I had a divergence of opinion."
"No, of course not. Hunting a lion. A big damn lion."
Agosto beamed with approval. "Not enough of that in this country, old friend. We're too used to enemies abroad; no one wants to face their own problem. Would you believe the tax hikes going to police?"
"Not at all, Agosto. Not at all. How much will that and, oh, two full magazines cost me?"
"For an old friend such as you? Nothing." That was so very odd. He remembered Agosto being humorless, dry as the desert, and stingy even among friends. What had happened to him? What had the war done to him? Maybe his memory was gone. He remembered Venice as a land ruled by filial harmony. The comment, the generous offer, suddenly began to wound him -- more than he could have thought possible. It's all changed too God-damn much, he realized, and he knew that he had to end the conversation then and there.
"Well, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Good day."
For the remainder of his life, Luigi would not speak at any greater length.
He loaded the magazine into the Duodo '15 and stared across the derelict field at his target: a scarecrow. It looked like a thin, rakish parody of a man, as scarecrows are wont to look. The man who once owned it had given his life for God and Country the same year as his new rifle's design was finalized. He found himself in the War again -- he did that, sometimes. The rotting corn became slowly advancing gas, the scarecrow a false, inhuman Frenchman in a filthy mud-brown uniform, rushing the lines without a rifle -- without a mask -- with a face obscured by clouds and a saber in each hand.
He fired, and the Frenchman lost an arm. He slowly advanced -- Luigi didn't realize that it was him doing the advancing, not the scarecrow and not the thick of the cornfield -- and then he lost another arm, and then his bowels. He came close enough to see the face.
Benito Cavalli. He shot and Benito Cavalli lost his face.
He shot the empty pole that once held a scarecrow over and over, until he pulled the trigger and the gun clicked empty.
Exactly five days later, Luigi Reggio woke up and looked out his window to see a crowd assembling, cheering, and drumming their feet in the light rain. He had slept in, by how much he couldn't tell, and for a moment anxiety overtook him. He'd never have an opportunity like this again.
He realized the crowds weren't following the parade from behind, but from ahead -- they lead the flag-bearers and the marching band. He still had his chance. He rushed through his living room, through his kitchen, and into his pantry -- and fetched his tool out from under three bulging sacks of flour. One of them spat at him with almost human indignance, and he ignored it. He knew that where he was going no one would care if he looked like a man playing a ghost in a cheap traveling comedy.
He went back to his window and opened the blinds, holding the rifle behind the door so as not to alert anyone. A pair of lithe, attractive women stood in front of it; he grumbled in anger. For all of his planning, these ignorant children would ruin everything.
His luck only got better. The women moved on, apparently captivated by one of the bandsmen -- or so he imagined, anyway. The motorcade came, and at last, he looked Benito in the eyes. He shouted his last testament -- 'Viva Venezia!' -- to his terrier, lounging unimpressed on the couch.
He pulled the trigger. A faceless guardsman began to kneel as the window shattered and the great blast tore through the streets. Time slowed down; the band still played and the people still celebrated.
He pulled the trigger. The English ambassador jerked, the guardsman neared the completion of his fall. The first trumpeters stopped their joyous song.
He pulled the trigger. Another guard began to bend, the Englishman finished the wild grasp for his neck, the first guardsman hit the earth. The music lost more volume.
He pulled the trigger. The Japanese Crown Prince's arm flew off at the elbow -- he didn't notice it -- the second guard keeled over in half, the Englishman slumped, the guardsman bled. The music stopped. The cheering stopped. The air was still. A third guardsman, particularly quick, was bringing a pistol to the ready.
He pulled the trigger. The sight of Cavalli's head exploding tore through his eyes. Fire tore through all the nerves in his chest. The screams of the masses tore through his ears. And then there was nothing except darkness, numbness, and silence.