Chapter 7

Andy and Gary, at performance’s end, bowed, clapped their hands, and said even the gods get tired, and told them the rest was up to them. They vanished into more plumes of smoke and retreated to the craft services table. The warriors did not know how to top this spectacle and so returned to their camps.

On their way to the camps, Andy, in disguise as Hector, a general of Troy, slayed Patroclus.

Achilles, the Achaeans’ greatest warrior, and a true blockhead, had not participated in the battles as of late, for the reason of something called “honor”. The details, to the machines, are ultimately unimportant; he was offended that someone did something to him, like taking his property wrongfully or only half-rightfully, and that someone did not take pains to mend the division. And so there he sat in his ship, puffing and pouting, wondering on some days, during the long hours he did nothing except play chess, how he would react when he was appropriately apologized (his fingertips fanning his breast, “oh well, it’s such a small thing, I’ve forgotten it ages ago”; his arms akimbo, “now you see things my way, eh”; or the blunt, “hmph!”), and wondering on other days that he would never forgive him and would also never forgive anyone for not taking his side.

And so the scene was set. The blockhead was in his boat, his best friend had died, and the Achaeans were returning to camp with his friend’s body. The blockhead, because of his affection for his friend, would remove himself from the strictures of honor to fight valiantly, and make a name for himself on the storied grounds of Troy. It was going to be a big hit. Maybe even the blockbuster of the summer.

To the sound of crackling torches, the blockhead heard the Achaeans’ return to camp, and smiled secretively on the pleasure of reuniting with his friend, who often bided by him playing chess; he waited furtively for Patroclus’s footsteps; when they did not come, he leapt out of his boat and saw his friend’s body carried on a pall; he threw himself onto the body and cried, which was somewhat a vulgar display, as so many others had died already in the past.

He wrapped his arms around his friend’s chest, while tears softly stroked his curls. Though the Achaeans were men hardened by the pain of living, they too bent their heads down and wept. When the blockhead sobbed that Patroclus was the best of men, the Achaeans too sobbed. When the blockhead began dotting his friend’s neck with kisses, they began to give the other suspicious looks.

Andy excused the behavior of Achilles, the Western model for male vitality and virility, as being particular to Myrmidon culture; to kiss one another on places not the lips was a sign of friendship. The blockhead then began pressing his lips onto Patroclus’s lips; this was a sign of best friendship. When the blockhead howled that they made love all night, Andy was amazed that they could spend an entire night giving the other firm handshakes and arm-wrestling contests. The Achaeans concluded Myrmidon culture was very strange.

After hours of weeping, recounting their boyhood together, and attempting to grasp the ephemeral nature of death and thus life, the blockhead’s face emerged from his lover’s curls as a scowl. He asked who had killed his friend; the Achaeans answered, Hector. He then barked for his armor and his arms and proceeded towards battle.

The blockhead raged and raved into the night, while the Achaeans yelled at him to ensure his straps were tight and that he grasped the sword by its hilt. He threw himself into a troop of Trojans; his sword flew as white flashes, and red burst and spilled from the Trojans’ wounds. He slashed, cut and thrusted, consecrating every death as a tribute to his lover and true friend. In this state of mind he heard the shush of water and felt the ground shake; in his cold heartless fury he met the oncoming rush of water that was the river Scamander’s wrath.

Gary convinced the film crew to collect and carry gallons of water to the site. This was going to be a great scene, he said.

The blockhead gritted his teeth and plunged his blade into the soil, holding his ground. Of course, plunging a sword into the ground would not give him more traction, but it looked very cool. The blockhead swore no god was equal to his grief. Meanwhile the Trojans attended craft services.

The flood was consumed in a great flash of fire, also a trick of movie magic. The blockhead laughed, boasting even the gods were on his side, the same gods he had just taunted not a while ago. He dove into more Trojan contingents, who were merely sacks of wine as they could not afford more Trojan extras.

The blockhead encountered Hector, who was setting up the lighting for the scene. The floodlights, strong and pearlescent like the lights of heaven, made the sweat, blood – actually wine – and water on the blockhead’s skin glisten, bathing him in an angelic glow. Hector knew the blockhead desired to kill him; he defended himself with the weapon no man had hitherto used in the war, his words.

The blockhead asked why Hector killed Patroclus. Hector explained that he most certainly could not allow anyone of the enemy to enter the city. The blockhead howled, You killed a good man! Yes, that was all well and good, but the goodness in men is insignificant when my neighbors are dying and my children cannot eat. The blockhead roared, I loved him! Yes, but you were not there to protect him.

You were not there to stop him from sailing here, you were not there to bring him back home and therefore to safety, you were not there to speak on his behalf when he could not defend himself, and you were not there when he died, nameless and alone to the earth.

The blockhead brought his head down and wept, just as he had over Patroclus’s corpse, for he knew he could never forgive himself for throwing his friend into danger and, worse, abandoning him in his final moments and, worst, disvaluing Patroclus’s friendship and therefore his own life until only after he had gone.

Hector, in a true act of pity, ignoring the mortal danger to his own life, put a hand on the blockhead’s shoulder and forgave him, for, after ten years of war, he realized that forgiveness was the only seed that could stop war.

And yet, though the blockhead understood Hector was recommending life to him, he couldn’t imagine living without Patroclus; and so, with one hearty cry, he thrust his blade into Hector’s stomach. In his mind, death was better than forgiveness, as death did not require forgiveness, in fact it required nothing.