Before I address those difficult conflicts, I need to engage in some thoughts of a vain, presumptuous, and solipsistic nature. Raconteur Press posted a piece on its Substack page entitled "On Witty Dialogue Choices for Writing Noir and Hard Boiled Characters." Naturally, having had a story accepted for publication in the upcoming moggie noir anthology, Dames, Derringers, and Detectives, I had to consider the possibility, based on this line from the post ("I’m thrilled to say that at least one of the new Moggie Noir stories features a bit of wordplay that takes me back to classic exchanges..."), that my story entitled "Calypso's Count" might have inspired the post. Odds are pretty good that some other brilliant writer (of which there is no shortage at RP) penned some excellent dialogue that motivated the posting of the article. However, I won't let that likely fact dissuade me from presuming that it was my story and dialogue the article writer had in mind.
By what right do I wedge myself into the position of praise? None, really. However, I do have reasons, if not a right. I remember doing some particular wordplay in the story--so I've got that going for my presumption. Additionally, the main characters are featured in my book Smoke, as well as the first short story I submitted to RP, "Monica on My Mind." The detective and his attractive assistant routinely engage in some pleasant badinage as part of their interaction and discussion about their cases. Finally, a couple readers have previously informed me that they loved the "witty banter" featured in these detective stories. That's the sum total of my reasoning--except for the additional fact that there's a lot of dialogue in the story; I'm hoping that at least some of it is memorable in a good way. Of course, once I read the anthology, it may become obvious that it was another gifted wordsmith who drafted the dazzling dialogue (and they no doubt avoided things like that alliterative affectation I just slipped in) and I'll have to bow my head in contrition--but until then, I'm shouting my presumption like a bevy of celebrity dames boasting about their ten minutes in space.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Le Frere Corse and I were handicapped by the other brother's illness, so we had to postpone completing the rumble at the cursed ruins. We consoled ourselves with a battle across the checkered field by armies of black and white. White made a determined attack that kept black trading pieces while seeking for an advantage. Eventually, the advantage came and the white king found himself trapped behind his own guards at the mercy of a renegade rook and a patient bishop.
On the following evening, the illness persisted, so we pulled out the more elaborate version of the game from the night before. My old Feudal game--acquired circa 1979--provided our evening entertainment. The checkered field became a grid of holes in a countryside of white and green with armies of white and blue. Once again, white got first move. Our initial setup was hidden and we didn't know who would get the first move. I was glad I had taken defensive positions behind mountains.
He made a cautious advance. I responded by killing one of his pikemen with a sergeant. He retaliated by slaughtering the lone enemy piece in his territory. He continued to press forward with caution, but threatened my castle with an advance on his right.
We had a few skirmishes, reducing each other forces in the process, while I prepared to take the fight into his territory. I finally advanced a sergeant deep into his backfield. While he was distracted with that, I ran cavalry up the flanks to threaten his castle from the rear while advancing infantry toward the castle's side entrance. The pocket collapsed around him. He pulled back to defend his fortress, but I had enough men converging on the goal to prevent his white warriors from intervening in the assault.
He attacked everywhere and casualties left the field faster than a jet bound for El Salvador. The effort was in vain. His king slew the initial attacker, but then fell to the blue prince's lance. It was a hard-fought battle worth every plastic corpse it cost.
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