The combatants assembled on the field, their seconds at hand. The pistols were proffered, inspected, accepted.

Back to back, the duelists counted out the requisite number of paces. Even though their contest was only to the first hit, not explicitly to the death, both recognized the risks they were undertaking.

At the tenth pace, the men turned and fired. One shot went wide, but the other was true; the duelist who had been hit looked down with horror at the spreading red stain upon his immaculate shirt.

“Dammit, Matt, did you put food coloring in your squirt gun?” he moaned. “This is my Phi Qoppa Alpha shirt! Do you have any idea how many paddlings I’m going to get if this stain is permanent?”

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