Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were arguing. This was unlike them.
“The way to safety is best t’wards the sea,” Rosencrantz argued, pointing down the rocky slope. In the far distance, well beyond trees and rocky outcroppings, the horizon showed a blue line. His curly hair fought back against the brisk wind. He may have used gel.
Guildenstern pointed in the other direction, “To climb is best to find a place of rest.” And then he produced a knife. His hair was whipping around. Friggin hair. He had always been envious of Rosencrantz’s hair. Did Rosencrantz use gel? It seemed like he must. It wasn’t natural, otherwise. Gel seemed like cheating. Guildenstern’s hair would be perfect all the time too if he used gel. Cheating, I say.
Rosencrantz appeared taken aback. This was his best friend, after all. They had been lifelong companions. Best friends on the roads of Denmark, and far beyond. Sometimes, quite far beyond.
Like, they were totally gay is what I’m saying.
But they were no longer in Denmark. They were no longer on any of its adjoining roads. They were likely quite further than they had ever been, or ever were likely to be again. They were still gay, though. That wasn’t going to change.
Furthermore (Guildenstern had come to suspect), they were quite likely no longer alive. If they had been best friends for life, then that agreement had been completed, and it may be time for a new arrangement.
“Fuck you forsooth before you find relief.” This was followed by a pointed pointy pointer finger. It appeared quite aggressive. This was quite unlike Rosencrantz.
“Die in a ditch and suffer as you die.” Guildenstern spat on the ground (for good measure). A bit of dribble stuck to the hairs on his chin. He wiped it aggressively, and then spat again. Also for good measure.
Each bit a thumb at the other thrice, in increasing intensity, and then stomped they in opposite directions. Guildenstern looked back to see if Rosencrantz was looking back, too.
He was not.
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