Liora sat cross-legged in one of those uncomfortable vinyl chairs in the waiting room, flipping through an old magazine she had grabbed from the rack. The headline screamed *“Top 10 Most Bizarre Celebrity Baby Names of 2024!”* She rolled her eyes but started reading it anyway. Tymothe, slouched next to her with his foot propped up—still in that walking boot—was scrolling aimlessly on his phone.

“You’ve got to hear this,” Liora said, not looking up from the magazine. “So apparently, some celebrity just named their kid *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”

Tymothe snorted, still looking at his phone. “Wait, like the ice machine? That’s... wow. Kid’s either destined to be a hockey legend or a heavy metal frontman.”

Liora giggled, flipping the page. “Oh, and it gets worse. Listen to this one: *Epoxy Almond*. What the hell is that? A snack or an adhesive?”

“Sounds like something you’d order at a vegan café,” Tymothe muttered, finally looking over. “I’ll have the gluten-free granola with a side of Epoxy Almond, please.”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Seriously, these people act like naming a kid is an avant-garde art project. Like, what happened to just naming your kid something normal? There’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ *Kate* or *Mike*.”

“Yeah, but how could they ever be the center of attention at yoga class with a name like *Kate*? You’ve gotta spice it up, make sure the world knows you’re too cool for basic vowels.” Tymothe stretched his arms over his head, clearly enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. “And the parents think they’re doing something groundbreaking, when really, they’re just dooming the kid to a lifetime of therapy.”

Liora chuckled. “For real. Imagine going through middle school as *Banjo Spatula* or *Moonbeam Harvest*. You’d never recover.”

Before Tymothe could respond, the receptionist called out, “Liora Throckmorton?”

Liora sighed, rolling her eyes again. “That’s me,” she muttered, standing up slowly. She shot Tymothe a look. “God, I hate hearing my last name in public. It sounds like I should be hosting tea parties for people with monocles.”

Tymothe grinned, watching her shuffle toward the desk. “Just lean into it. I’ll start calling you *Lady Throckmorton*, and we’ll get you a fancy cane.”

When she returned, they shared a quick glance, Liora settling back down beside him. “I mean, come on. Throckmorton? Who did my ancestors have to piss off to get that?”

Tymothe chuckled. “It does sound like you should be knighted or something. Sir Liora of the Throckmortons, Guardian of... overpriced antiquities?”

Liora groaned, resting her head in her hands. “You know, it’s bad enough dealing with all the doctor stuff. I don’t need to sound like I’m straight out of a Dickens novel while doing it.”

Tymothe shrugged. “At least it’s memorable. No one’s gonna forget a Throckmorton anytime soon.”

“And you,” Liora shot back, eyes glinting mischievously. “You can’t exactly talk. Tymothe? Really? With a ‘y’? That’s like a hipster knight who only drinks cold brew and solves crimes in his spare time.”

Tymothe laughed. “Oh, trust me, I’ve been having an identity crisis about that ‘y’ since high school. I thought it made me look cool and sophisticated.”

“Yeah, real sophisticated,” Liora teased. “You sound like you belong in a bad indie movie. Like the tortured lead character who writes poetry about abandoned warehouses.”

“And Throckmorton is somehow better?” Tymothe shot back. “Sounds like your ancestors ran a tiny, haunted village where all the kids disappeared.”

Liora cracked up, clutching her stomach. “Honestly, it fits. Maybe I’ll start introducing myself as *Liora, Mistress of Throckmorton Manor*. You know, the one where the lights flicker and the butler’s been missing for 15 years.”

Tymothe chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Tymothe, the coffee shop philosopher with more opinions than sense.”

They both laughed harder than they probably should have for a waiting room, but neither cared. It felt good to be loud, to be ridiculous, in a place that always seemed too quiet and too serious.

After catching her breath, Liora wiped her eyes. “We’ve really hit the jackpot, huh? Throckmorton and Tymothe. Two names that sound like we belong in some twisted Victorian mystery novel.”

Tymothe nodded sagely. “Or a band. Definitely a band. *Throckmorton & Tymothe*, playing all your favorite obscure tunes no one’s heard of.”

Liora smirked. “First hit single? *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”

“And the B-side,” Tymothe added, “*Epoxy Almond*.”

They both burst out laughing again, drawing curious looks from the other people in the waiting room. Liora grinned, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

“Throckmorton and Tymothe,” she said softly, leaning back in her seat. “We’d be unstoppable.”

“Damn right,” Tymothe replied with a wink. “But first, we conquer this waiting room.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, still grinning like a pair of mischievous kids who’d just pulled off the best prank ever.

The day I realized I was becoming my mother, I was standing in the frozen foods section of Walmart, aggressively squeezing bags of peas. It wasn't even about the peas, really. But there I was, channeling her signature move: testing produce like it had personally wronged me.

"Ma'am," a teenager in a blue vest said, hovering nearby, "the peas are already dead."

I laughed, but it came out as more of a snort. Mom used to do that too – that weird hybrid sound between amusement and defeat. "Just making sure they're fresh," I said, immediately wanting to stuff the words back in my mouth. Fresh. Frozen peas. Christ.

The kid – Marcus, according to his nametag – raised an eyebrow with the kind of judgment only a sixteen-year-old can muster. "They're frozen."

"Listen, Marcus, when you've spent thirty-five years eating disappointingly freezer-burned vegetables, you develop trust issues." I dropped the bag into my cart, where it landed next to discount shampoo and the kind of cheap wine that comes with a twist-off cap. The holy trinity of a divorced woman's shopping cart.

"Thirty-five?" He glanced at my face, doing that subtle math thing people do when they're trying to figure out if you're lying about your age.

"Forty-two," I corrected, because honestly, who was I kidding? "But I started having vegetable-related trauma early."

That got a genuine smile out of him. "My mom's the same way with bananas. She's got this whole system about the exact right amount of spots they should have."

"Smart woman. Bananas are sneaky bastards." I started wheeling my cart away, then stopped. "Hey Marcus? Thanks for not calling security on the crazy pea lady."

"No problem. But maybe try the fresh produce next time? Less chance of disappointment."

I laughed – a real one this time. "Where's the fun in that?"

---

The thing about becoming your mother is that it doesn't happen all at once. It's more like a slow-motion invasion, like those nature documentaries where a parasitic fungus gradually takes over an ant's nervous system. One day you're a normal person who can walk past a slightly wilted houseplant without saying "Well, I guess we're both having a rough day," and the next you're anthropomorphizing produce in the middle of Walmart.

My sister Katie finds this hilarious, of course.

"You're not turning into Mom," she said over FaceTime that night, while I was cooking dinner. "Mom would never buy frozen peas. She'd grow them herself and then guilt us about not appreciating them enough."

"I caught myself deadheading the petunias yesterday while telling them they were doing their best."

"Okay, that's a little Mom-ish."

"A little? Katie, I'm one garden gnome away from full transformation."

She snorted – the family trait strikes again. "At least you haven't started collecting those creepy porcelain angels."

"Yet." I stirred the pasta sauce I was making, which was definitely not as good as Mom's. "Did I tell you David's getting married?"

The silence on the other end was brief but loaded. "Shit. Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm great. Nothing like your ex-husband marrying the woman he left you for to really put those self-help books to the test." I tasted the sauce. Definitely needed more... something. Mom would know what. "I got the invitation yesterday. It's very tasteful. Cream-colored cardstock, little gold flowers. Very 'we didn't mean to fall in love while you were taking care of your dying father.'"

"Jesus, Mae." Katie's voice got soft, the way it does when she's worried about me. "You don't have to be funny about it."

"Actually, I do. It's either jokes or arson, and I look terrible in orange."

"Mae..."

"I'm fine. Really." I turned down the heat under the sauce. "You know what's funny? I caught myself doing Mom's thing earlier – you know, where she lists all the ways something could be worse?"

"The 'at least' game?"

"Yeah. I was sitting there looking at the invitation, and I actually thought, 'Well, at least they didn't use Comic Sans.'"

Katie laughed, but it was gentle. "That's pure Mom energy right there."

"I know. Next thing you know, I'll be sending passive-aggressive care packages full of newspaper clippings about divorce rates and self-help books about finding love after forty."

"She means well."

"She always does." I sighed, looking at the sauce that would never be as good as Mom's. "You know what the really scary part is?"

"What?"

"I'm starting to think she might have been right about some things."

"Like what?"

"Like how you can't fix people. Like how sometimes love isn't enough. Like how frozen peas are never as good as fresh ones."

Katie was quiet for a moment. "You know what Mom would say right now?"

"At least we're learning?"

"At least we're learning."

We both laughed then, that weird snorting laugh we inherited along with our trust issues and our tendency to talk to plants. Because maybe becoming your mother isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. Maybe it's just another way of admitting that some battles were fought long before we came along, and some wisdom has to be earned the hard way, one bag of frozen peas at a time.

Besides, I'm pretty sure Mom was right about the peas. They really are better fresh.

Phantom and the Clockwork Catastrophe

The evening sun dipped below the skyline of Crestwood, spreading a warm palette of oranges and purples across the sky. Inside Silk & Satin, Chris Hanson stocked the last few shelves, adjusting the placement of decorative pillows in an entirely unnecessary but strangely therapeutic manner. His mind was already racing ahead, summoning images of his alter ego: Phantom, the city’s most unusual superhero.

“People don’t appreciate good pillow placement like we do, Simson. Just look at these shades!” Chris beamed, showing his sidekick Simon Douglas—known to the world as Simson—how the pillows brought out the subtle hues of the comforters.

“Yeah, Chris, it’s thrilling,” Simon replied, rolling his eyes while trying to suppress a grin. He slipped into his plain black hoodie over his aging frame, a cunning disguise that made him blend in like a shadow. “But we’ve got a city to save in a few hours. Pillow design can wait.”

Chris straightened up, his expression shifting to one of mock seriousness. “Right! The fate of Crestwood rests upon our remarkably feeble shoulders. The older we get, the more dramatic it becomes.”

“More like the more dramatic we become,” Simon said, chuckling. “When’s the last time we fought a real villain? It’s been a while since… was it Professor Soggy Pants?”

“Ah yes! The dastardly villain who wanted to drown Crestwood in melted ice cream. A truly sticky situation, I tell you,” Chris replied, nodding solemnly.

Suddenly, the shop's door swung open with a bang, snapping them out of their playful banter. A man, short and stout but surprisingly agile, burst in. It was Gerald, the evil Hobbit scientist, who had spent years trying to take his revenge on the duo for thwarting his plans multiple times. This time, he had a peculiar gleam in his eye.

“Phantom and Simson! It's time for my ultimate plan!” Gerald announced with an exaggerated flair, not quite understanding that he was supposed to be scary. “I’ve constructed the Clockwork Cataclysm—an explosive device designed to bomb this fine city into oblivion! And there’s nothing you two old timers can do about it!”

Chris and Simon exchanged incredulous looks. “You want to blow up the city? That’s original,” Chris said dryly.

“Works every other time,” Gerald shot back, adjusting his oversized goggles. “And this time, I have robot minions!”

Just as he said that, a chorus of whirring mechanisms sounded from outside. Small robot creatures rolled in, each one carrying a tiny bomb, blinking lights, and all sorts of gadgetry built from spare parts.

“Ooh! Look at that!” Simon exclaimed with faux enthusiasm. “So cute. Too bad they’re about to be flattened.”

“Right!” Chris said, his training kicking in as he straightened his back and slid into a fighting stance that looked less fierce and more like someone trying to pick up a dropped remote. “Prepare yourself, Gerald! We’re going to give you a taste of your own medicine!”

Simon launched himself into the fight first, striding confidently towards the approaching robots. “Hey, gizmo goons! Let’s dance!” As he kicked, he miscalculated and instead tripped over one of the rogue robots, landing flat on his face. “Ow!”

Chris burst into laughter, shaking his head. “You call that combat? You should’ve gone for the ‘elderly grace’ technique!”

With a determined huff, Simon scrambled back to his feet. “Elderly grace? Is that what you call tripping? Just you wait!” But he promptly dodged another mini bomb—this time a direct aimed throw courtesy of Gerald’s little henchmen.

As the robots began to swarm, Chris charged into the fray. He struck one robot square in the chest, only to have his fist bounce off like he’d just punched a brick wall. “Okay… who built these robots? The Hulk?”

Gerald cackled at the chaos. “Good luck with those! You’re just an old manager and a—”

“An old student of martial arts!” Chris yelled, swinging a nearby coat rack and knocking the heads off two unsuspecting robots in one swift movement. “Hang on, Simon! I’ll handle this!”

Simon swiped at a robot’s knees with his trusty baton, the same one he used to ward off unruly shoppers back in the store. “This is a genius battle plan!” he shouted, exuberantly whacking the robots on the head like he was conducting an orchestra. “Just so you know, none of us are ever getting government pensions after this!”

“Tell me about it! My 401k is taking a dive with all this hero work!” Chris hollered, spinning and launching himself into the air, miraculously performing a perfect somersault that would’ve impressed even the most seasoned acrobat. He landed with his hands on his hips, striking a pose. “And Urgent Care is going to start denying my claims soon.”

Simon gasped, dodging another errant bomb. “We can’t let that happen! Save the city! Save the pension!”

As Chris and Simon ducked, dove, and improvised their way through the chaos, the din of metal and explosions mixed with their laughter and the sound of their combat. Suddenly, with one final rallying cry, they charged together at Gerald, performing a poorly executed double kick that sent both of them tumbling to the floor, tangling in each other’s limbs.

With an indignant squawk, Gerald fired an emergency button. “You haven’t won yet! The countdown is on!”

Chris pulled himself up with a grunt. “Countdown? Are you serious?” He whipped around, finally taking stock of the digital timer now glowing ominously on the wall across the shop. “Oh, for the love of—Simon! We need to disarm that thing!”

“Get it, Phantom!” Simon shouted. “I’ll distract him!”

“Your distraction involves tripping over your own feet again, doesn’t it?” Chris quipped, but there was no time for puns or planning.

Summoning their last reserves of energy, the duo sprang into action. Simon swerved around Gerald, forcing the villain to dodge right into the obstacle course of robots that he had previously unleashed. As robots tumbled like dominos, Chris leaped towards the timer.

His fingers flew over the keypad, as memories of every ridiculous movie cliché flashed in his mind. “C’mon! Just one more second… or was it two? Or three?!”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

With just one second to spare, an explosion of lights erupted, and the devices powered down. A collective sigh of relief echoed through the store.

Gerald, now standing dazed amidst his malfunctioning robots, stared wide eyed at the two unlikely heroes. “What just happened?”

Chris awkwardly adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Long story short, this city is safe. And you—well, you might want to improve your craftsmanship. Those were some cheap parts!”

Turning to Simon as he dusted himself off, Chris smiled. “Well, buddy. Old superheroing ain’t so bad after all.”

Simon grinned back, weary yet triumphant. “So, pillows next time? Or maybe retire?”

“Oh, please! There’s still one last case to solve—the mystery of the missing cranberry scones from the bakery!”

And with laughter resounding in the air, the two heroes of Crestwood—Phantom and Simson—slipped back into the shadows, leaving behind a city safe for now, but always in need of their quirky blend of combat and humor.

Death straightened his tie in the break room mirror, obsessively adjusting the black silk until it hung as precisely as the sword of Damocles. Today was his annual performance review, and HR had been particularly insistent about "business casual" this year. The tie felt like overkill, but Sharon from Accounting had given him a stern look last time he'd shown up in just the traditional hood.

"You've got something on your..." Linda from Pestilence gestured vaguely at her own face. Death patted his skeletal cheeks, finding a sticky note that read "COLLECT MR. JENKINS - TUESDAY 3PM" stuck to his zygomatic arch.

"Thanks," he muttered, crumpling the note into his pocket. "These things multiply like Instagram influencers during fashion week."

The break room coffee maker – a relic that had witnessed the fall of civilizations and survived three office renovations – gurgled ominously. Death grabbed his mug, a novelty item his sister had given him that read "LITERALLY DEAD BEFORE MY COFFEE." The coffee inside was black as a tax auditor's heart and probably just as bitter.

"So," Linda said, stirring her green smoothie that writhed like living things, "ready for your review with the big guy?"

"As ready as a millennial with student debt is for retirement." Death slumped into a chair that creaked like the gates of the underworld. "Apparently, my 'collecting metrics' are down 2% from last quarter."

"Mercury retrograde," Linda nodded sagely. "Gets everyone eventually."

"That's not even a real thing," Death grumbled, then checked his phone – the latest iPhone, because even immortal manifestations of human mortality had to keep up with the times. "Besides, try explaining that to Management. They're still using Excel 97 to track the apocalypse."

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a printer jammed with the wails of the damned. Just another Tuesday at Cosmic Forces Inc.

"At least you're not Fate," Linda offered. "Poor thing's been in meetings all week trying to explain why free will keeps messing up the quarterly projections."

Death snorted, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across a parking lot. "Yeah, well, maybe if they'd upgrade from that ancient prophecy system. I mean, who still uses stone tablets? We have cloud storage now."

His phone buzzed: "PERFORMANCE REVIEW - 5 MINUTES - CONFERENCE ROOM C (THE ONE WITH THE VOID)"

Death stood, straightening his tie one last time. "Well, time to face the music. And by music, I mean the endless droning of KPIs and target acquisitions."

"Break a leg!" Linda called after him. "Or you know, someone else's. Whatever works for your department."

As Death walked down the hallway, past cubicles where various cosmic forces pushed papers and updated spreadsheets, he couldn't help but wonder if other anthropomorphic personifications had to deal with this level of corporate bureaucracy. Perhaps somewhere, in another office, Father Time was trying to explain why daylight savings time kept messing with his time sheets.

The door to Conference Room C loomed before him, its ancient wood carved with runes that spelled out "PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING" and "NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES IN THE VOID."

Death took a deep breath he didn't technically need, clutched his performance metrics folder, and knocked.

Just another day at the office, really.

The fluorescent lights seeped from the ceiling. Jerome stood in line at the DMV.

*How peculiar that I, a man whose intellectual peregrinations have traversed the labyrinthine corridors of continental philosophy and whose treatise on the metaphysical implications of breakfast cereals garnered such acclaim among the cognitive elite of the Portland coffee shop intelligentsia, should find myself here among the unwashed masses, held hostage by the Kafkaesque machinations of bureaucratic tedium.*

The line moved forward three feet. A child dropped his juice box.

*Indeed, one might posit that this very queue represents a microcosmic manifestation of society's inexorable descent into entropy — a physical embodiment of the collective unconscious's struggle against the ossified structures of post-industrial malaise. Why, my mere presence here surely elevates the proceedings to a sort of performance art, a living installation piece commenting on the arbitrary nature of civic legitimacy.*

Take a number, the woman behind the counter said. Jerome took ticket A47. The digital display showed A12.

*How fitting that they should reduce us to alphanumeric abstractions, we who contain multitudes! Though I dare say few here possess my capacity for metacognitive reflection on the inherent absurdity of our situation. My consciousness expands to encompass both participant and observer, like Schrödinger's cat — if Schrödinger's cat had published in several mid-tier academic journals and maintained a moderately successful blog on the intersection of phenomenology and reality television.*

The ceiling fan turned slowly. Paint peeled in one corner. Someone sneezed.

*I find myself reminded of that summer in Geneva, debating ontological uncertainty with a rather fetching doctoral candidate whose name now escapes me, though I recall with crystalline clarity the way she arched her eyebrow when I explained my theory about the hidden symbolism in traffic signals. What intellectual vitality we shared! What paradigm-shattering discussions! Until that regrettable incident with the fondue and her father's rare book collection.*

A47, called the counter. Jerome stayed seated, lost in thought.

A47, the voice repeated. Someone tapped his shoulder.

*The touch startles me from my reverie like Proust's madeleine in reverse, though in this case the sensory trigger is less patisserie and more proletariat. Nevertheless, I shall demonstrate the graceful forbearance that has made me such a celebrated figure at faculty wine mixers.*

They called A48. Jerome stood up too late. The line reformed without him.

*Naturally, this is precisely the sort of temporal displacement one would expect in a system designed to suppress the revolutionary potential of original thought. I believe I shall incorporate this experience into my next paper: "Waiting for Go, DOT: License Renewal as Existential Praxis in the Age of Digital Reproduction."*

The lights buzzed. Jerome took a new number. B12. The display showed A49.

Outside, the sun set. Rain began to fall.

Winston Thaddeus Montgomery III adjusted his bow tie (a particularly distinguished paisley number from 1962) and scowled at his reflection. The wrinkles around his mouth had arranged themselves into what he deemed a most scholarly formation, like ancient manuscripts folded by time. His salt-and-pepper mustache – meticulously trimmed to exactly 3.7 centimeters – twitched with disapproval.

"Why so serious?" his neighbor's child had asked him that morning, while bouncing a rubber ball against his prized hydrangeas.

The audacity! The sheer impertinence! Did the small human not understand that life itself was a solemn undertaking? That every moment required the utmost gravity? Harold had spent forty-three years perfecting his signature expression of profound contemplation (eyebrows raised precisely 0.8 centimeters, forehead creased in exactly three parallel lines).

He smoothed his tweed jacket (authentic Harris Tweed, acquired during the Great Liquidation Sale of '98) and practiced his most dignified harrumph. The sound resonated with just the right mixture of authority and weltschmerz – a skill he'd mastered during his tenure as Assistant Deputy Library Chairman (temporary).

"Serious?" he muttered to his reflection. "I'll have you know that I maintain exactly the appropriate level of gravitas for a man of my station." The fact that said station primarily involved cataloging his extensive collection of Victorian butter knives was, he felt, entirely irrelevant.

His cat, Lord Wellington IV, yawned from his perch atop a stack of unread philosophical treatises, clearly appreciating the weight of the moment. Or perhaps he was just hungry. It was so difficult to tell with cats – they possessed nearly as much natural dignity as Harold himself.

Almost.

I looked forward to returning to the Squeaky Fromme School of Assassins today. It was Final Exam day, and I was just one test away from getting my double-aught degree, i.e., my 00º.

Fromme’s is a fine school; I had originally chosen it for its famous silent strangulation program, an area in which I was weak. (Noisy strangulation not only calls attention to what’s happening and who’s doing it, but it’s also just rude.) Also, the Fromme School’s laser marksmanship, creative impaling, and untraceable poisons are hidden-world renowned—second to none surviving assassins’ programs anywhere.

The faculty, I found, had always been very imaginative. The Kill-Off Challenge is a great annual event where they even supply all of the blasting caps. The instructors are also extremely motivating. For example, last semester I won the award for the Best Mortal Blow, a much-sought-after prize, for which I've already apologized to two families. (The guy was an extraordinary bigamist, but now he's just an ordinary dead Mormon.)

You’d think the religious wouldn’t have to worry about the likes of us assassins. I got extra credit for doing that guy in the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program. I only stabbed him once because, without transfusions, he wouldn’t even survive a lengthy and heroic admission to the ER.

This year I had to repeat my Ninja Murder curriculum and Bleaching Forensics. I had hoped my lab partner would return, and I was a bit surprised when he did. I say this because one of the most sobering things about coming back to school each day is seeing who doesn't make it back.

There’s a bit of a turnover.

But fear not, I was back in school; along with the handful of surviving assassin wannabes and been-there-done-thats.

There was Harold Wilbert, infamous for his handling of that entire Plaquemines Parish thing in Louisiana. Jack Gravelet was at his seat, smug over that change or regime in Somethingsomething’stan. Dick Peneguy was there, too; I don’t even know what he did, but when the media’s so quiet about something, you know it had to be badass. Mike Deiciedoux was there in all his glory. Considered an artist in his field, black market impresarios tremble at his call name—"the Dash.” Charles Meistovich, “the Bolshe'dick,” looked like he hadn’t slept in days and still had some dried blood on the front of his neck. Les "More" Himel, however, looked very well rested, after taking some time off after handling all of the extended family business in Southie.

The final exam was a written one. It was considered only a formality, for although we were all armed and dangerous, this was the ivory tower of assassination academia. Herein we wouldn’t be tested heuristically, for we few remaining were way past that; nor ballistically, because it doesn’t take an advanced degree to acquire a firearm; nor even philosophically, because the philosophical discourses on targeted murder had already been exhausted by the erudite apologist and epicurean gourmand, Hannibal Lecter, who has recently made a political comeback.

Yet, all there wondered what that one question would be. Only a perfect answer would earn the double-aught. Even points off for grammar and syntax would relegate one to the single-aught, licensed to merely thwart, not kill.

We all turned our heads to each other in silent greeting, nodding here, winking there. There were here, now, the surviving dozen.

The test booklet was handed out. We were not to open it until the proctor said so. For this auspicious occasion, our final official act at the Fromme Academy, our proctor was none other than the notorious Col. Heineas McSanguin, Assassin Emeritus from the Dallas Grassy Knoll Institute.

The room fell silent.

I think I even saw a bead of sweat on Chuck Glueck’s temple, accruing toward the critical mass that would send it trickling down his temple. This was saying something, because Glueck was known to have interweaved, serpentine—untouched, unscathed, and un-shot, through the “blood-Ba’ath” on the killing fields of Mosul, the slaughter whose body count required actual mathematics theorists.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Col. McSanquine announced, to which we all laughed because there were no ladies—and certainly no gentlemen—in the room, despite our vodka martinis always being stirred, not shaken. “You may open your booklets,” he instructed.

I thought I had prepared well. I thought I was ready. Through my MI6 connection, I had last year’s final test question:

“Describe in detail the existential earworms traveling through a man’s head just ahead of the bullet chasing it. Compare and contrast this final thought meander to that of a woman’s head.”

"Buddy" Parks’ famous answer was forever commemorated by being etched in a headstone hung on the venerable walls of the Fromme School. What an honor!

The year before’s question I had pilfered from my stoolie in the NSA:

“What is the most frequent cause of death in our profession, as perpetrated by us?”

Of course, this question was only slightly less famous than its famous answer:

“Heart failure.”

Because no matter how we accomplished any assignment, that heart always failed.

But I had had no way to prepare for this year’s final exam question. When I had opened my booklet, simultaneously with the others, there it was:

“Should you consider assassinating the classmate sitting to your right, and if you’re on the end of a row, the one of your choosing?”

A trick question?

I mean, yeah, I’d consider it. But was this code for actually doing it as some sort of loyalty test? Did the double-aught require thinking outside of the box, to commit the act that was the intended extrapolation? The power of suggestion?

So, yes, I considered it. Only. So far. My No. 2 pencil, freshly sharpened, would make a nice shiv that could result in heart failure.

I looked to my right, where “Mouse” Munson sat. He was living off of his estranged uncle’s fame—the guy who had pulled off the Tylenol murders.

It suddenly occurred to me. Was it me, or did it smell like almonds in here?

Mouse himself was looking to his right as that thought raced through my head, which I now wondered if it, too, would soon be chased by a bullet from my left. I looked to my left. There was Eddie Sheepak looking at me. (He was the one who had orchestrated the Jeffrey Epstein “suicide” from an intake area where he had been incarcerated on a 24-hour hold.)

There was a moment. A moment that shrouded the room with indecision, confusion, half-baked intents, and self-imposed skulduggery. It was strange, because of everyone’s reaction. The brain, when it cannot process something, has a faux-anticipatory reflex, and it engaged among us.

We all began to laugh. Spontaneously. Nervously. Awkwardly.

That’s when the next moment passed. A moment that shrouded the room in decision, straightforward intent, and suspension of conscience, which had always been on shaky ground, anyway. No one was laughing now.

Everyone was shooting, slitting, stabbing, choking, pummelling, and bludgeoning.

After the tumult settled into a pile of silent carnage, Professor Emeritus Heineas McSanguine collected his things, placed them into his briefcase, rose, and walked out of the room, just shaking his head.

What a great class! Such promise! he thought.

He reached into his pocket to shake out two extra-strength Tylenols, because mass gunplay and vocal death throes always gave him a headache. Just the sheer noise, he reflected.

All of the students were awarded posthumous A+/100s, as the finest class to graduate from the Squeaky Fromme School of Assassins. They moved on.

____________

This was originally a 100-word entry into the August 2024 Drabble-of-the-Month challenge, by @Ferryman (https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14646, won by @toddbeller). Ah...from little seeds...

As interrogation rooms go, this had to be the worst Kerridge had seen. He could hear the officers chatter through the thin glass of an obviously two-way mirror. The chair was appreciably uncomfortable. That was a good touch, and so was the loud infrequent drip from a leaky pipe. The table they had cuffed him to was paper thin, and so was the door.

“I don’t think you are taking this seriously.”

“See, this guy gets it.” Kerridge gestured to the cop, whose flop sweat gave away the fear he hadn’t been trained to hide.

The second man slammed his hands onto the desk, either side of Kerridge, leaning in with a lit cigarette pursed between dry lips, and a stoney glare. “You better start taking it seriously, kid. Understand the situation you're in. If you can.”

“Kid? Not all of us aged twenty years in the forties. We’re the same age.”

He leaned closer and ground his jaw. The danger would have seemed real, if flop-sweat hadn’t broken the illusion, by being afraid of Kerridge. “Why don’t you try being civilised? Never know, it might work.” Kerridge smiled.

A rumble of chatter came from behind the mirror, and Stoneface sucked in smoke between gritted teeth before, as expected, he pulled away.

“Civilised. Pah. What, you want a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Kerridge was rewarded with a seething glare that told him he hit his mark.

“Out.” Stoneface told his partner. Kerridge was worried, until the angry cop fell in behind Flop-Sweat, out the door.

“You shoulda hit me.”

Stoneface stopped in the doorway, puffed out a long stream of smoke.

“Woulda if I coulda, kid.”

He gave his best attempt at a non-hostile grin, then slammed the door behind him.

Kerridge liked that one. Just not as a cop.

Five minutes later, Flop-Sweat came back, saying nothing, but placing down a cup of black steaming liquid.

“He couldn’t even bring it to me himself, eh?” Kerridge asked, smiling towards the mirror, knowingly.

In the sweltering heat of the late Cretaceous period, on a primitive court etched into the dusty earth by the dragging tails of passing Stegosaurus, two Tyrannosaurus Rex faced off for the championship match of the first-ever Mesozoic Open.

Rex, the reigning king of the Cretaceous, stomped onto the court, his tiny arms swinging with determined uselessness at his sides. Across the net (which was really just a row of tall ferns) stood his arch-nemesis, Regina, her sharp teeth gleaming in the prehistoric sun.

"You're going down, Regina!" Rex roared, his massive head bobbing as he tried to intimidate his opponent.

Regina snorted, sending a small Pterodactyl fluttering away in fright. "In your dreams, fossil breath! I've been practicing my serve!"

The Compsognathus line judge, perched precariously on a rock, chirped to signal the start of the match. Rex waddled over to the service line, a regulation tennis ball looking comically small next to his enormous feet.

Now came the first challenge: picking up the ball. Rex bent his huge body forward, jaws opening wide. With a delicate precision that belied his fearsome reputation, he closed his teeth ever-so-gently around the fuzzy green sphere.

"Hmmpf! Hmmpf!" Rex grunted, his words muffled by the ball in his mouth. The small gathering of Triceratops spectators tilted their frilled heads in confusion.

Rex waddled back to his starting position, then with a mighty swing of his head, released the ball into the air. In the same motion, he attempted to swing his comically small arm, hoping to connect with the ball.

Unsurprisingly, he missed. By several feet.

The ball bounced sadly on the ground beside him. The Triceratops audience let out a collective "Oooh" of disappointment, their horns drooping slightly.

"Ha!" Regina barked from across the court. "You call that a serve? Watch this!"

Regina approached her ball with all the grace of a rampaging Ankylosaurus. She too struggled to pick it up, her jaws snapping at the air several times before finally securing the elusive sphere. With a wild thrash of her head, she launched the ball skyward.

What followed could only be described as a full-body spasm as Regina attempted to hit the ball with her diminutive arm. The resulting motion sent her off-balance, and the mighty T-Rex toppled over, landing with an earth-shaking THUD that sent ripples through the nearby tar pits.

Rex let out a roar of laughter, then promptly inhaled the tennis ball he'd been holding in his mouth. A series of hacking coughs ensued, each one sounding like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

The Compsognathus line judge, unsure of how to call this particular violation, began racing back and forth along the fern net, letting out a series of confused chirps.

As Regina struggled to right herself, her tail whipping about and taking out half the Triceratops audience, Rex continued his battle with the tennis ball lodged in his throat. With a mighty cough that stripped several trees bare, he finally dislodged the ball. It shot out of his mouth like a furry green comet, flying over the fern net, bouncing off Regina's head just as she managed to stand up, and landing perfectly in the far corner of her court.

The Compsognathus line judge froze, then let out a triumphant chirp. "Fifteen-Love!" it seemed to say.

Rex blinked in surprise, then raised his tiny arms in victory. "Yes! I am the champion! I am the greatest tennis player to ever live!"

Regina, rubbing her head with her shoulder (the closest she could get with her short arms), glared at Rex. "Oh yeah? Best two out of three!"

As the two T-Rexes continued their ridiculous attempt at tennis, a small, furry creature watched from the underbrush, shaking its head. "Give me a few million years of evolution," the primitive mammal muttered to itself, "and I'll show them how it's done."

And so the great Mesozoic Tennis Tournament continued, with more balls swallowed than hit, more accidental points scored than intentional ones, and more dinosaurs toppled than a perfectly placed asteroid. In the end, while neither Rex nor Regina improved their tennis skills, they did unknowingly contribute to the fossil record - by creating a layer of compressed tennis balls that would confuse paleontologists for centuries to come.

Wyso pulled at the crumpled tab on the top of his nub. The melted plastic encasing him was of the crinkly, thicker type, the kind used to cover English cucumbers.

Cucumbers could be eaten in many ways, to scoop bean dip or in salads or layered in sandwiches.

Ah, sandwiches. Wyso had a dim memory of sandwiches, filling the mouth with such delicious chewiness.

He could not open his own mouth now, much less take the stiff plastic covering off his nub. That went against the entire order of things and would accomplish nothing useful anyway.

So what if he exposed his nub to the world and the elements? What would happen? Would he be free like in dreams of flying up far above the clouds in the sky to sweep and dive in the forever blue of creation?

He stared out through the glass covering of the container. He was in a gray corridor and could not really move much at all.

The one behind him never spoke. He tried turning to see her, but only caught a brief glimpse of golden hair and a stiff, sad smile.

“Do you hear me, beautiful girl?”

Was she lonely?

Wyso said, “Maybe this world isn’t really worth the effort. But isn’t there something you find interesting?”

He thought he heard a faint whisper. “Barbie.”

Wyso felt his pulse quicken and something almost palpable thicken in him as her words eked out.

“Beautiful?”

“So beautiful that my nub is fit to burst, my dear Barbara.”

Myso heard her cry and felt a lone tear roll down his own cheek, slipping slowly over the hothouse cucumber plastic and pooling down his legs at his feet.

“Do not cry, dear one. Though I am serious, I am also profound and loving, I really am.”

“Wyso serious?”

Which happened to be the precise moment when the child turned the knob on the vending machine and Wyso fell down the long tunnel on his way towards his next adventure.