It happened so innocently with the random interaction of a young buck spermatozoa and a leisurely, strolling ovum minding her own business on the Fallopian Way.

Assault!

Mixing of bodily humors! Interdigitation! Merger!

And from this fortuitous superimposition of overlying reproductive gametes arose...

WōMan!

Faster than a speeding muscle car. More powerful than an ulterior motive. Able to leap tall tales at a single bound.

And, who disguised as the fairer sex, leads a frustrating battle for truth and justice and the Imperative Way.

When there is a crime, you can count on WōMan to weed out the truth. Wherever there is injustice, you can expect WōMan to kick male ass! There, in her Fortress of Solitude, she holds court and sends the unfaithful packing.

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...

Osborne Reynolds, the Ninteenth Century scientist, lived his life in turbulence.

His "number," i.e., the "Reynolds Number," is the ratio of inertial forces to viscous forces within a fluid subjected to different fluid velocities.

You don't have to remember that.

At a low Reynolds Number, flows tend to be laminar—sheet-like; alternatively, a high Reynolds number portends for a flow that is turbulent.

You don't have to remember that, either.

Any bonafide turbulence involves intersection of different fluid speeds and directions. The chaos that results can even counter the direction of the flow, creating eddy currents.

That's funny, because my name is Eddie, and I am unable to go with the flow.Like my name, eddy currents churn the flow and increase the risk of cavitation. Not good.

That's what you should remember!

I take blood pressure medications because the eddy currents in my arteries risk cavitation, especially in my brain—relevant because of something that happened to me just this morning.

Right after my morning coffee (which, unfortunately, raised my Reynolds' Number), I was minding my own business, walking the short walk to work. Distance from work, pursposely orchestrated when considering a mortgage, can favorably impact one's Reynolds Number. Mine was short, countering my coffee-induced Reynolds Number increase.

That's when I crossed paths with my ex-wife.

It had been a particularly acrimonious divorce, fraught with bad arithmetic relegating me from the royalty of my castle (as, per Sir Edward Coke in 1604, when he wrote, “Every man’s home is his castle").

She approached. With another man on her arm. They looked good. Even royal. I retreated into my serfdom and my number rose.

"Hey," she offered with a wry smile, "how's it going?" For the record, wry raises the Reynolds Number.

Turbulence ensued.

Cavitation began. And while a cavity in your tooth, among the teeth you gnash, can be filled to make the tooth right, especially the eye tooth I would have willingly given up to never seen her again, cavitation in the brain is not so remediable.

I could have recovered from my stroke, but the fact that if I died, she'd get over it fast, pushed my number to the point where I did just that.

We all reached over to help Jesus into the boat, just as a large wave rocked the vessel.

“Please, Jesus,” Judas pleaded.

The wind calmed.

“Oh you of little faith,” Jesus said.

“Who me?” Judas asked. Jesus didn’t answer. “However did you do that, Master?” Judas asked. “That walking on water.”

“It’s easy, Judas,” Jesus explained.

“How so, Lord?” Judas asked suspiciously. He was calm but still shot a nervous glance here and there for waves.

“Anyone can do it. Even you. It just takes practice. Rocky almost had it.”

“Probably a lot of practice,” said Andrew.

“That is so, Andrew. But if you try it over and over, a thousand and another thousand times, you will do it.”

“A thousand and another thousand?” Andrew asked hopelessly.

“No, really?” exclaimed Judas. “I gotta try this.”

Judas was always so envious of Jesus—wanting to wield his powers to “do things right.” But his envy didn’t wish for the power to teach; or the power to cure; or the power to love; and certainly not the power to forgive.

A Zealot, he was always wishing he could have Jesus-like powers to bring down the Romans. By force—heavenly force.

He was too poisoned in his ambition to bring down the Roman world to realize that heavenly force was an oxymoron. And I think he definitely was cheering for the bad angels in the fight, wanting a piece of the adoration pie himself. And now here was Jesus telling him how to do something that the rest of the world thinks only a Messiah can do, so Judas is on it like stink on shit.

He takes a step overboard, and for just a moment it looks like he may have the knack—but just for a split second, because he immediately starts to wobble, and guess what? That’s right.

“Man overboard!” shouted James.

“No shit, Socrates,” I said. Jesus just stood in the boat, unconcerned.

“Uh, Lord,” stammered Rocky, “Judas can’t swim.”

“Yea,” said Andrew, “shouldn’t we fetch him out really quick?”

“Nah,” answered Jesus, “let him stay down another minute. Consider it his baptism.” We sat impatiently until we couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lord, please!” James shouted. “Save him.”

“He’s already saved,” Jesus said, “if he’s been baptized. If he's renounced Satan and his pomps.” Another moment passed. “What’s the worse thing that can happen?” asked Jesus. “What? He could drown? He could die? And then I’d bring him back to life?”

“Maybe,” I added, “but not without debate. It’d be unpleasant.”

“That he died? Or that he’d come back to life?” asked Rocky innocently.

Jesus, as usual, had a point. How bad could it get with Jesus around? He knew cardiopulmonary resuscitation millennia before EMS. He was cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

“OK, fellas,” Jesus signaled. “Now.”

We hurriedly reached for the spot in the water with oars. We jabbed where the bubbles were, and I can tell you they all weren’t bubbles from his mouth and nose. We worked hard to bring him aboard. Judas grabbed back. Finally, when we had him back on board, we thought that that little episode was over, but then he threw up all over the damn boat.

“Satisfied, Jesus?” I barked. “Now who’s going to clean that up?” When Judas finished all of his coughing and hacking, he got a few words out with the greatest of difficulty.

“I’ll get you for this, Jesus,” he sputtered.

“Gotcha,” Jesus said back, then slumped up against the inside of the boat and puffed up some netting for him to lay his head and was soon asleep.

“Was that just mean, or was that symbolic of some complex theological point?” asked James.

“Mean,” coughed Judas.

“Mean…sort of, I guess,” said Andrew.

“So, Judas, why’d you step out of the boat if you can’t swim?” I asked.

“Let’s just say,” Judas said, “I had faith. More faith than the bunch of ya.”

"A fisherman who can't swim!" scoffed James.

“No, it was all symbolic,” disagreed Rocky, “but I don’t get it.”

“I think it was symbolic of you being a big jerk,” I told Judas. “You can’t just let Jesus be Jesus, doing Jesus things. No, you gotta horn in.”

“Shut up,” scowled Judas. “I might have known you’d take up for Jesus.”

“You obviously don’t like him. Why don’t you quit the club? Why do you keep hanging around him? Why do you keep follow him? Especially into the water? Ass.”

“For the chicks,” answered Judas. Such a Judas thing to say.

Judas didn’t mean that, of course. Not all the way, anyway. He was an unsightly man such that even Jesus couldn’t help him in that department. And he had that gimp right hand. And he had bad breath, too. Hell, I think the only thing holding in the teeth he still had was plaque.

It continued to be a bad boat ride for Judas. As soon as Jesus nodded off, the wind picked up again, as if it was his consciousness which held it at bay. Judas had already been through a lot and wasn’t ready to confront his fears again. The man was shaking from cold and from fear. When the boat began to rock such that we had to grab each other to steady ourselves, Judas leaned over Jesus.

“Master,” he whispered in a panicky tone, “wake up! The waves are rising again.” True to the report, a large waved slapped the boat. “Master!” Judas shouted. “You sleep while we drown. The rest of us can’t just walk away like you. How can you sleep?”

“Sleep,” Jesus muttered with one eye open, the other undecided, “is a gift from God.”

“Master, please,” Judas continued.

Jesus rose begrudgingly and the winds fell. He shot us all a look; he was aggravated. He stepped over the side of the boat, and skipped away on the waves. Judas cursed him, so we all started kicking him. He kicked back ineffectively with his own nasty feet.

One time I asked the Magdaline if she had ever washed Judas’ feet.

“Oh,” she said, “I think I get around to most everybody’s feet in time.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?” she asked.

“Is he a regular guy? You know, does he like women?”

“No, I can’t say that he does.”

“I knew it!” I exclaimed.

“Actually, it’s not like that,” she was quick to explain. “He doesn’t like anybody.”

“Oh.”

So he really wasn’t hanging out for the chicks. No, he was hanging around for a bigger payoff. He really did have faith. He had faith that the new world order was coming with Israel as the new boss. He had faith that the legions of angels would come down and kick Roman ass and take names, and he'd be there to supervise. He had faith that when that happened he’d be on the second to highest tier in the pyramid with the rest of the Apostles. He had faith that one day he’d be a Jew with a Mercedes-Benz, and although that’s a German car, that wouldn’t matter.

Judas is always portrayed as this sympathetic character. “Someone had to turn him in,” I keep hearing. Or, “Jesus knew he would do it, so why did he pick him as an Apostle if he knew it?”

Or even, “Judas is the unlikely hero of the Jesus saga.”

That’s all a big history revisionist pile of crap.

All of us had our unsavory sides. We were all uneducated, illiterate drifter losers and reprobates. Rocky denied Jesus, Thomas doubted him, and Mary Magdalene wouldn’t even smile for him.

But Judas turned him in.

Look, Jesus was heading that way anyway. Annas and Caiaphas were gunning for him; Herod was gunning for him; half the Sanhedrin were just waiting to nab 'im. The course was set. This tide that was the future was out, but it was about to roll back in with a vengeance. Jesus didn’t need Judas—the tsunami was coming with or without him. Judas didn’t change anything. Just got it going a day or two sooner.

Because of Judas, it’s Easter Sunday, not Easter Monday, that’s all, although many places make a 3-day weekend out of it anyway.

So Judas in no way had to turn him in, as turning Jesus in at all was so unnecessary.

But Judas made that choice.

Andrew Lloyd Weber can sing his Jesus Christ Superstar songs about poor old Judas and good ol’ Judas, but if Andrew Lloyd Weber ever had to hang on a cross for even a minute, he’d never forgive the likes of that piece of shit. Did I mention that crucifixion is on my list of things I never want to happen to me? Or going overboard like Judas the Zealot was gonna?

"Mary Claire, please listen to me carefully." He spoke deliberately.

He had her attention. He took her by her hand, pressing it lovingly.

"Yes?" she replied, expectantly.

"I've watched you from afar. I've watched you near. I've been at points between, over and under, to and fro. Here, there, everywhere…and beyond. From every vantage point, you reach into my eyes with only the loveliest of visible grace. When I look at you, I stop in my tracks, for I must not simply see you. I must stare!"

He was still holding her hand lovingly. She could feel the transmission of his adoration through his intertwining fingers.

"Your voice sings to me in a complex melody that harmonizes with the Music of the Spheres. God Almighty, Himself, is involved here. I can hear it. God is Love and you are His love song."

He pressed her hand affectionately, and she felt irradiated in his sentiment.

"Yours is a fragrance that defines my life, my ambitions, my hopes, and my dreams. A scent like yours transcends the most delicious perfumes ever molecularly combined for Woman. I inhale you and become one in your heavenly ambiance — an apotheosis of communion."

Her hand was her concavity to his convexity; the yin to his yang; a softening to his rigidity; and a woman to a man.

"Yours is the taste of ambrosia, distilled by the gods, themselves; such flavor is filtered through decanters of gold, precious stones, and a sieve of the finest cosmic string fabrics left over from Creation. When I taste you, the rest of the world sours, but I take heart, because you cleanse my palate with purity and the sublime. Tasting you is taking Holy Communion!"

Her hand in his — a tandem being, breathing as one: inhaling each other and exhaling the poisons of the world. Mind’s eye gazing into mind’s eye. Believing only a real seeing can consummate.

“When we embrace,” he continued, “I am making love to the Sun! Heaven and Earth stop. The gears of Time itself grind to a halt and space rips in order to bestow and focus the attention a union such as ours deserves.”

She could no longer feel the separateness of her hand from his. She had become one with him, joined at their palms’ lifelines, awaiting the spiritual journey roadmapped within the creases and lines of fortuitous portent.

"It is for all of these sensations and identifications with and within you that I now humbly ask for your lovely hand," he squeezed gently, "in marriage."

"Oh, William," she swooned. "You are my original, my unique, my bespoke partner."

"In the interest of transparency," he added, "all of what I said was written by ChatGPT."

"Oh?” she asked, one lovely eyebrow raised. She paused a moment, then asked, “What about your hand?"

"The hand, my love, was all my idea," he replied.

"Then, yes!"

It's Friday and I'm out of luck

Down and out without a buck

Without a clue, feckless and dumbstruck

It's the thirteenth, so what the hell!

Today I simply I forgot to duck

The trouble coming my way, unstuck

My head's on the floor, rolling amuck

And my body's disembodied, I'm screwed

Smarmy Smorzando was a woman to be reckoned with. Her hair was dutifully coiffed daily just so recherché. Her clothes--always--were impeccably, fashionably, admirably haute. She was a bon vivant, vivisecting a ne'er-do-well of derring-do.

She lived an amazing life in ordinary times; an amazing person among the hoi polloi. She was a patrician who pronged, unobstructed and effusively, through the throngs of plebeians. She was condescending with adorers, down-upending with peers, effervescent among the stagnant, evanescent among paparazzi, and viridescent to those she envied.

Smarmy Smorzando was relevant beyond her allotted 15 minutes, influential among influences and discouragers alike, and important among the self-appointed self-important.

She was a perfectionist who refined perfection; an insurrectionist who impressed the impressionistic; a euphamist among the eumorists; an auscultating percussionist striking a beat to a different drum that drummed the heartbeat of an indifference from...

Indifference from the poor, the hungry, the downtrodden, the miserable and suffering, the sick, and the otherwise other-worldly deserving from the underserving.

Smarmy Smorzando had coiff and haute, bling and swag, poise and grace, snide and snark, all wax and no wan, misgivings over giving, and damnation if she did and damnation if she didn't.

She was tall and thin but extended far and wide. She opined widely with her mouth opened widely. Her audience was Gaussian, and she buoyed the center curve highly above the heads of those below it. She got over everyone but could always stoop lower.

Smarmy Smorzando left then laughing when she went but bleeding when she came. The little people so far below her needed her like they needed, so far, a hole in the head, so graciously rendered by her stiletto shoes stepping on their heads to reach her status.

She called her own name as others called her names. She took names as those names took her seriously. But, true to her own name, Smarmy Smorzando followed Gaussian when the time came and merely faded away.

Tomorrow she will be is as famous as Tildon Tessier was yesterday. Remember him? Windows open for raiders and pirates and burglars to steal, but before they get away--and no one in this life ever does--that window closes cruelly and righteously.

Every day in the Eighties, for me, was a lifetime. It was a time when I could still look to touch and smell and hear all of the beautiful world that was still there for anyone still able to see and feel and sniff and actually listen.

Before the great change in the world.

Things today can never be the same as they were back in the Eighties. Today it's as if I've been blinded with cataracts, set afire with pain, unable to smell, and deafened by hearing loss.

Today I turned 90. Oh, to be in my Eighties again.

"Castles made of sand...

Slip into the sea...

Eventually." — Jimi Hendrix, Axis, Bold as Love

My reputation is built on granite

Solidly planted

One with the planet

Never recanted

Its spires reach to heaven

Its turrets defend my realm

Defying repossession

And refuse the overwhelm

Yet aspirations are wicked

And circulate through pipes

And rise and fall, as liquid

To rot, below, the hype

Granite is not forever

And castles suffer disorder

When acceptance of whatever

Is used for brick and mortar

No castle is perfect

Even one built on stone

We allow the cracks that reflect

To show what we've become