The Stetson Peace Accords
by Charles C. Cole
Stetson Laughlin stood in front of the windowed wall in the mediation room on the second floor of the capital city courthouse. He looked out over the rooftops of Drury, a former mill town that had seen better days. Still, there were a couple of long-necked construction cranes swinging buckets near the hilltop hospital, a sign of economic recovery.
A black limousine — was there any other kind? — parked at the base of the courthouse steps, a pair of motorcycle escorts in front. As if that wasn’t ostentatious enough, there was the official flag of the Kingdom of Kuver attached to the aerial antenna and the national symbol — a falcon above a castle turret — on both the hood and trunk.
The double doors at the far end of the conference room opened. Two comically serious men in black peeked in, one went on a scavenger hunt: trying the closet door (locked), the mini-fridge (empty), and even glancing under the table for anything suspicious (nothing).
The other fellow stared into Stetson’s eyes a long moment and gave him a quick frisking then, after a cursory scan out the windows, they left. And the guest of honor entered, Laughlin’s counterpart, the Kingdom’s contracted mediator for the peace talks, Toby Pennels. The doors closed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” hissed Laughlin. “Do they know?”
Pennels shook his head. “I didn’t know myself until a few minutes ago.”
“You think we can keep this neutral, for the sake of all those lives on the line? Or is this gonna be a continuation of the same pissing match we had at St. Peter’s Academy for Lost Children?”
“Such a long time ago. How are you, Stetson? Looking good.”
“I thought I was doing pretty well for myself, having escaped my alcoholic father, the abusive nuns and, what’s-his-name, the school bully: Toby ‘kill-me-now’ Pennels. Why aren’t you in a dungeon somewhere spoon-feeding cold slop to your pet rats?”
“I met the right people and turned my life around,” explained Pennels.
“Just like that?”
“The short version. I’m sure your time’s important. We’re not here to reminisce about the good old days. All I need you to do is show me the peace accord and where to sign. And I’ll be out of your life. Again.”
“I’m not signing my name next to yours, like a frigging marriage license. You almost drowned me in that damned pool. What do you say to that, Mr. Mediator?”
“I guess I thought you’d resist more, but you gave up.”
“That happens when you can’t breathe,” said Laughlin.
“I’m sorry. That was a different me. Ironically, I owe you my life. In that moment, I had a glimpse of my future, and I didn’t like it. My father-in-law says it takes everything we’ve lived through to make us the person we are. Now, every day I try to make the world a better place. So, shall we review the details of the terms agreed to? I’m sure the legal teams were thorough.”
“Toby,” said Laughlin, “I’m not sure I can do this. Maybe you should reschedule with someone else.”
“It took months to get here. All you have to do is cross a few T’s and dot a few I’s.”
Laughlin crossed his arms in front of his chest stiffly, then immediately thought better of it, rubbing both his shoulders a moment, ending in a sort of conclusive self-supporting pat.
“Feel better?” asked Pennels, with the slightest hint of sarcasm.
“No,” admitted Laughlin. “Why you?”
“First of all, we’re just glorified pencil-pushers this time around. I wish you’d seen me at the table with the striking Chilean miners last summer.”
“That was you? I heard about it. That was amazing.”
“Thanks,” said Pennels. “Working conditions improved, with continued oversight, and lives were protected.”
“This could be my chance to get even, at long last,” said Laughlin.
“If it makes it any easier, I just look like him,” said Pennels. “I read once that our skin cells are replaced every two to three weeks.”
“I read that piece, too. But fat and muscle cells can take up to 70 years to renew. Meaning, some of the old you, the part I’m most familiar with, is still in there.”
“I can’t defend the things I did,” said Pennels. “You have a right to your emotions. I only ask that we find a way to put things aside right now to do the good work we’ve been hired to do.” Pennels approached the papers and ceremonial fountain pens laid out on the table. “Maybe you can show me you’re the better man by signing first.”
“Great idea,” said Laughlin, “except that it came from you.”
“Or, maybe,” said Pennels, “the best thing I can do for you today, and for all concerned, is keep this short, trust those that came before us: sign and leave.”
“And my petty revenge?”
“Another day. I’ll leave my contact information.”
“The better man.”
Pennels pulled up a chair. Laughlin, still by the windows, not a step closer, watched. Pennels reviewed the documents. Without looking up, he said: “Just promise me that you’ll sign, too. I don’t like the idea of leaving with the deal not quite done.”
“I’ll sign before you leave. Just slide the papers down. I’ve read them a dozen times. I know what’s there.”
Pennels finished up. He nodded. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms together in a quick silent prayer, then he picked up the documents in one hand and a fountain pen in the other, stepping toward Laughlin. Laughlin met him halfway, accepted the lot and stepped back to the seat at the end of the table.
The process was over in less than a minute. Laughlin stood and extended a signed copy for Pennels to take with him.
“We good?” asked Pennels.
“You’re right: you’re not the same person,” said Laughlin.
“We can do dinner. My wife can finally meet the man who changed my life.”
“Too soon,” said Laughlin.
Copyright © 2024 by Charles C. Cole
