foul play

A work with the motif of (the currently drizzling) rain, self-love, and birds singing, though they don't appear explicitly in the piece.

Joruald decided to break off his friendship with Bleodorf. He wanted to do so openly and in the style of established stars like Bruce Willis (not coincidentally included here, as he, too, has a hand in offending self-love), John Travolta (preferably with Quentin Tarantino), and perhaps also Clint Eastwood (a symbol of theatrical solutions, who, since he wasn't seen with any of them specifically, is included here quite haphazardly).

Aside from the mistake of expressing an opinion contrary to Joruald's, Bleodorf was innocent of any wrongdoing.

Living alone, Joruald could have enjoyed preparing for foul play—scheduling a meeting was the only activity he might have trouble with. This, too, revealed a bit of his neuroticism. A cold tone is no stranger to him, but the costs he must bear in generating it indicate a profound, though not complete, awareness of the impurity of the move and the absurdity of theatrically breaking off a friendship altogether. However, he was enjoying the preparations, aside from the tiring phone call. Bleodorf's unconcerned and unsuspecting tone on the phone was a declaration of war for Joruald. Fifteen minutes early, Joruald threw on his coat and tucked a trimmed tennis racket and two tennis balls into his breast pocket. The soft handle of the racket had been sawn off for easier concealment. Joruald was certain that the piece of shaft protruding in its place would be sufficient to deliver a powerful and accurate serve to the victim's head. Joruald lived in a pleasant, secluded place, which, now drizzled with rain, looked pleasantly extraordinary. He left. He wrapped his coat more tightly around himself and set off briskly toward the park, where Bleodorf, though the meeting time hadn't yet arrived, was already waiting on a bench. The man was clearly visible. He rose at the sight of Joruald. He didn't smile. If he had, the plan would have failed immediately, for Joruald, moved by his smile, would have seen the utter absurdity of his action. Now, however, he could grasp the radiant discouragement Bleodorf felt for him and channel it into anger, in favor of revenge. But it was too little; the plan was gone; the racket fell from under his coat with a clatter.

"What's that? You wanted to play tennis in this weather?" Bleodorf asked, a kindness incomparable to any other in his voice.