Hello everyone.

I know it's been some time since I posted anything on this site. My last post was back in June, and there's been a good reason for it.

For starters, I've been searching for a new home and have put all my efforts into doing that instead of writing. As of right now I can say that I have indeed found and purchased a home for myself, and I will be moving very soon. Honestly, I've feeling a mixture of emotions from this turn of events. Excitement, anxiety, sadness, the works. I'm sure many of you can relate. But yeah, that's one of the biggest reasons I haven't been on this site and why you haven't heard from me lately. I have a home now and I'm moving. It's a great place. Great neighborhood. Not too far from my work office and friends. It's perfect. So, I think I'm going to spend some more time focusing on that, getting things packed away, and then finally move in, starting the next chapter in my life.

Another reason is because I've been constantly tired so much. I have a bunch of reviews that I've wanted to write and post back during the summer, but I haven't had the chance to do so because I've been so tired from work. I already spend eight hours a day staring at a computer screen and the last thing I want to do is do more of it.

And finally, lately, I've been questioning my place on Prose. There are a lot of good writers and good friends that have sadly left. This isn't new, of course, but it hits harder when you're pretty close to them. Two of my dear friends, Finder and EstherFlowers1, seem to have left the site altogether, and the number of friends still here seem to get smaller and smaller as time goes on. I would have asked voiceinthewind if he knows what's going on, since I believe he still keeps in contact with one of them personally, but unfortunately, we aren't on speaking terms due to the two of us realizing we are not good for each other. So, I don't know anymore. Should I stay? Should I move on as well? That's the kind of conflict I've been struggling with lately. I do love to write, but sadly, the words having come to me as of late. And it saddens me that all those I've called friends aren't here anymore.

So, that's kind of where I'm at right now. I figured I should update you because you're all still dear to me.

Take care, everyone.

When I pulled up to the Halloween party at Eddie's house, I saw something jump onto the roof. I told Eddie it looked like a big dog with weird legs, but it was Halloween.

"Ha-ha! Nice try," he said.

By 3:OO AM, everyone else had crashed. I felt sick, so I went to the bathroom and locked the door. But, before my vomit could come, I fell asleep hunched over the toilet. When I woke up, I went to check on Eddie. I did not mean to add fresh bile to the stew of gnarled bone and gristle. Sorry Eddie.

I'm getting better at procrastination

yet

I am the Mastercrastinator

kinda skipped the whole ametuercrastinator and have a staunch stance as AN Anticrastination enthusiast

writing this in Lieu of finishing my main project so I guess this could Essentially be considered

prosecrastinatioN

Assassin Yoga

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved

Disclaimer: No warranties!

Reader Info: The original edition came in an APP adding several pictures, nearly making it a comic. Here, it is keeping it alive until I contemplate, IF an extended edition will be one of those lucrative streaks of the muses, which I am notoriously missing-out on for life!   ;-)

The story begins:

`The best way to hide something illegal is straight in the public eye!´

I knew that the job is dangerous, when all who chose to oppose me in the past cheered at me for going for it. 

Lesser academic research.

Find ANY form or picture of assassin yoga that proves it is not just a renamed warrior yoga!

It did indeed sound exactly like the sorta task, which overpaid academics dish to their lackey pre-graduation assistants. 

Hence, I grabbed my laptop and seated myself in the central library of our university. 

Starting my first research.

Cross-indexing the research files of our university intranet with the public info of my internet research.

It soon resembled strolling across a graveyard.

Professor Dorsey, founder of the studies into India's effect on modern-day lifestyles and healthcare, had been banned from university, his title revoked, because a week after starting his research project on yoga, he seemingly also decided to live-stream his private LSD sessions on a public website. 

Twitchy times, what a peculiar way to wreak havoc on his scientific reputation.

Doctor Harris, the female assistant of the former professor, was found dead in the parking lot on campus. Her throat cut. Police decided that some homeless or refugee mugged her the bloody way. 

Given, that Doctor Harris also was one of the instructors for our campus security guards, and that she knew that specific parking lot from a thousand patrols, another peculiar coincidence.

My original predecessor, the assistant lackey, committed suicide by jumping out of a window in his apartment. Around four weeks before his graduation, with one of the most gorgeous girlfriends on campus, and zero mental health issues on his record! 

My most recent predecessor had that tragic case of food poisoning, followed by a very wrong medication injected by the emergency crew in the nearest hospital.

I felt my stomach cramp, as I had read those notes with my laptop already online and Assassin Yoga already run as a browser search.

My thoughts raced, but I knew not a single student, who would optically resemble me enough to switch identities.

Hence, I wiped my laptop and fled the campus.

Walking homeless through the night, I contemplated restarting far, far away. Something rural, with a job not academic at all, and a lifestyle not going online overly much.

I took a train ride, once more went off the popular city parts, and finally decided to waste my limited money on a motel room.

The best shower in a lifetime, as my nerves stopped jamming every clear thought by alarmed stress reactions.

I walked to the clerk, intent to ask about food delivery services and something to drink.

`Mister John Doe, your wife already handled the pizza order!´, said the clerk.

`I never marri...´

THE END, as sound suppressed shots can't be heard by someone shot in the head. Nor, by a shocked and blood-splattered clerk!

Termites - Relentless, And No Remorse!

© Andre Michael Pietroschek

We are Legion, while your Bible only babbles. We roam in swarms, feasting whenever we can. We are enlightened, not impairing our way of life by false gods of civilization & science. Nature's decree is all we need, it includes our place and purpose. Yes, you called it your precious cardboard-heroic-figures collection, we considered it another snack along the way. No regrets. ;-)

The Treasure Box - With Butts Wide Open

© Andre M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

The story begins:

In a casual tone Jemal said: `Man, I always told you that you need a bro or sista helping you along.´

Limpy replied: `But, I had to try on my own!´

Jemal continued: `And it still came down to a waste of money, health, and time.´

Limpy verified: `Yes, it did. Time and time again.´

Jemal chuckled: `See? Sometimes they have so ganged up on us, that there is no mainstream way out.´

Limpy smirked: `Yeah, no more tears shed about it.´

Jemal asked: `So, with your adversary the cocksucker and your adversary the pervert, why did you not instantly go guerilla warfare on them?´

Limpy confided: `White man's lethargy, and being outnumbered. Plus: I keep my secrets, got that allergy to confessing.´

Jemal cheered: `Yeah, that is my man. At least some lessons were learned along the way.´

Limpy praised: `You and keeping the smile on your face. Even better than the killers in their song Mister Brightside.´

Jemal sneered: `Only British music is even worse than white folks' music, man.´

Limpy scrambled: `No fucking way I go back to gangster rap short of my fiftieth birthday.´

Jemal eased: `Soul music then, bummer. Now, watch and learn.´

Jemal parked the car and left, going to the trunk of it. Limpy also heaved his overweight body outside. Jemal strolled towards the bouncer, and before Limpy could even follow along, Jemal did send the bouncer on the final journey by shooting him in the face with a silenced pistol.

Jemal and Limpy entered the establishment, with Jemal also shooting the cashier and the bartender. Seemingly, the only other active persons inside.

Limpy inquired: `How did you get them all sedated?´

Jemal mentioned: `Hostile takeover of a little operation. The rest was their own doing, their own fatal decision. Horny gay inhale that drug to get their behinds wide open. It is a popular drug in their sex craze. All I had to do is add a little extra.´

Limpy asked: `Zyclon Bee style?´

Jemal replied: `Yeah, reminding me of those early Nazi tricks, before they had mass graves and concentration camps.´

Limpy said: `That is so 'Whatever it takes'. Hey, like that Nickelback song.´

Jemal wondered: `How did you white folks ever manage to conquer a single village, being such lazy and lethargic blokes?´

Limpy insisted: `Yo, Mister Boner XL, I was foul played repeatedly AND I am older. Still limping and hurting from that crap.´

Jemal asked: `So, how much is the yield here?´

Limpy guessed: `More money in one night of work than any mainstream job would pay in a month.´

Jemal pushed: `And?´

Limpy said: `And it is not crime pays, it is having the will and the nerves to get away with it, or die trying.´

Jemal concluded: `So true.´

Limpy asked: `We do the final now?´

Jemal replied: `Sure.´

Both killers stopped looting and plundering, stopped taking SIM cards out of smartphones, and only grabbed what was easily carried. Mostly, that was the money of their victims, some smartwatches without the traitorous user card inside, or those phones.

The drive went on, as nutjob removal has a habit of looking like the worst sort of crime anyway.

The slut was just another porn lady. The kind, who runs online and offline stuff no daddy wants to hear about his daughter, ever. And, egomaniac to the core, the foul played their supposed friends and employees just as well. One of the crime cartels scored big money by putting itself between the real internet and the people. Spying on their data, hacking into their bank accounts, and even making them worse slaves than what the government does to us all.

The lower ranks were not ready for crimes in such a league, as they lacked the expertise and backing of the really dangerous criminals. The hacker myth is so full of contradictions because those wanna be's falling prey to it lack exactly, what makes a good hacker: Competence, discretion, and intelligence.

In movies, the killers kick doors open, as if army style, or have some unlock tool from their technician. Older ones picked locks manually. In truth, most doors were held by simple screws or bolts, and removing them could be done quickly and without much noise. Jemal was quite a workaholic on such tasks.

Boobs matter, but so does our monetary independence. The porn lady stood no chance at all. Looking like barely an adult, though that could be lots of makeup on some barely recognizable zombie with silicon tits, she was quick to bolt from her online camera room the moment electricity went off. Jemal shot her thru the lungs, purposely leaving her alive a while longer.

Jemal asked: `See?´

Limpy said: `Yes, but we won't find that much money here, as the real value is something else.´

Jemal spoke: `Right, the list of her clients and customers. Precious data, our next hitlist.´

Limpy remembered: `I knew it from the day they dished us that Jesus was saved by the three holy kings from far away desert lands...´

Jemal asked: `What?´

Limpy replied: `Running with Baron Samedi is for good, or what nowadays we call the Lesser Evil.´

Jemal said: `No, man. It is running with friends looking out for you. But, not even I expect white folks to be capable of returning that favor. Ever.´

They smiled and soon thereafter left the apartment.

Note:

Poppers, or Poppers, are popular slang terms given to drugs of the chemical class called alkyl nitrites that are inhaled. Most widely sold products include the original isoamyl nitrite or isopentyl nitrite, and isopropyl nitrite. Isobutyl nitrite is also widely used but is banned in the European Union.

Before the historical Nazis were fully in power, they experimented with assassination ideas, which get rid of loads of us unwanted persons. One was a travel bus, which unleashed deadly gas into the passenger cabin (the main part of the bus, killing 20 to 40 people each time). Others included homicidal inns and hotels, coastal ship journeys making any type of us unwanted `vanish´, or manual crimes like Agatha Christie enjoyed them.

The Murder Experts - Blair Witch Germany ?

© Andre Michael Pietroschek

Note: This version, much like my ``Assassin Yoga´´ was made on a page with pictures and background music adding to the atmosphere. Here, it is only the minimal fiction at maximum word-count for the original site.

`When a loony is in denial, a neighborhood gets troubled. When a government is in denial; Thousands get killed to keep the secret a secret!´

The story begins:

My new name is Regina Schlecker. Now in a witness protection program of Germany.

I have always been a loser, a drifter, a grey mouse in the age of selfies & online attention phishing.

Easy, when one is ugly as poo and not too well-educated, eh? Worse, when one has boobs!

`Regina and her sister, Vagina... Highschool stupor-jokes that should tell you: I got effing good at sucker-punching & being a b!tch.´

I also fell in with the usual cocktail of false friends, abusive influencers, and selfish LGBTQIA-fakes.

`Never trust a person desperate to get laid!´

Especially teachers, but also the rest.

And, no: The notorious killer duo were not my first lovers.

Mirco Ehlend and Christoph `Chris´ Dymer. The latest young adults listed as serial killers.

What a morbid hype train the media made of it.

The media were government-pressured to control, from what sources people could get any information at all.

Preventing public hysteria, what a crappy and hypocrite excuse.

Being bisexual, people of course thought: I went porn on every bypasser in my life. Totally not biased, eh?

Maybe, we had some sex in those years, but certainly no relationships or love affairs. Drunken stupor, being bored, the usual.

Mirco Ehlend & Chris Dymer were buddies. That was, until they made their final choice.

The Pagan Nightmare, the homicidal gay joyride through the Hessian forests.

Finally, weeks later, my former friends had become `cocky´, too bold for their own good.

That was, WHY they were arrested after their little special, the 2021 Oktoberfest massacre that never happened.

Cute, dear Bundesregierung (gov).

Nobody gave a damn beep about the truth during those interrogations. Elite university folks wanted to be right, not to help anybody else. Ever.

`All adults are assholes, it is why the good die young!´

8 official murders `solved´. It was 40 murders I knew of.

Plus the never-happened Oktoberfest Massacre in Munich casualties!

Since then, my parents had their own therapy years. I also was forced into a number of oh so helpful sessions with experts, who were less useful than the typical coma-patient in a hospital.

Ignoring the press worked splendidly well, as it was considered compliance to government wishes. In truth, they just did not pay me.

`A bitch has bills to pay, just like almost anybody else!´

And so, I found my victims. My clients and customers.

That pest of investigators, podcasters, streamers, who drove other people mad.

We did not drive, we did not fuck each other, we just did, what they wanted: We walked & hiked out into the woods, the Hessian forests.

Each tour spiced-up with one of the little secrets I knew of.

Because, they never learn!

Mirco Ehlend and Chris Dymer did not start born delusional. Maybe, their mental health was wasted due to their crimes, I don't know.

But, to me they were friends. People I could rely on, people not lying into my face without being kicked in the balls!

`I miss our good times, guys!´

Strong girls don't cry, they say. They are wrong.

And smart girls always do their makeup.

Also: Rashes and itches taught me more than whoever was paid for it in school!

Mirco and Chris had never made a secret about that `Something out there´, in those Hessian forests, made people choose bloody murder.

Of course, no academic bloke even considered anything but psychiatric convenience for an explanation. Drug-crazed teenagers lost it, went psycho, killed folks. Done.

Each tour, we walked our butts off, found prove here and bloody traces there, and the second night of each weekend tour, it began again.

Knowing the originals, or at least our originals, I had learned to spot it. The change, the `possession or infection´.

But, only teenage life is still free from full adult routine.

There were no murders on our way back. Not one tour gone awry.

The Bible said, he insisted his name is: Legion.

Could be a pathogen making the infected brains react? As if I know shit about `demons´.

Mirco and Chris were not simply narcissists attempting to spawn a German Blair Witch hype.

Also: Pagan myths were ALL after `winner writes history´. Much, like on witchcraft!

So, maybe guilt from the money-grab and PTSD just drove me nuts.

Else, that government of ours had challenged the killers, and now these killers formed their network of possessed, or infected, lackey-avengers, to bring it down. Helluva sacrifical lamb!

`Die, Govlamb, die!´

Yeah, that's it. Really is!

`From Regina Legion with love?´

THE END

I heard my name called, and yet I didn’t answer. For if I did, I would only hasten that which I did not want to proceed. If I didn’t, damned if I do, damned if I don’t was the current colloquialism.

The courtroom was as antiquated as I believed it would be. Old vids from long ago showed as much. I always wondered just how old those vids were if a single image remained intact. Our society did not value history. Our society treasured progress. I championed that notion and tirelessly sojourned toward that goal. Since my schooling, all I ever wanted was to make a positive contribution toward society as a whole. I saw myself as one man advancing toward PLEASANTNESS and lighting the way for others to follow. Who wouldn’t want what I offered? Who couldn’t say yes to such abundance I presented? Who shouldn’t assist in every manner possible? Every additional question I quietly asked began with who this and who that and remained unanswered as I moved closer to the stand.

My stand itself was of little consequence to the dramatic effect THE NINE presented. Each seated themselves, evenly spaced among a semi-circular altar elevated with a prestige the accused would never get. I stood with a single overhead torch light metaphorically imprisoning me in a cone. If I were to have a jury, this image would sway them toward a guilty verdict. However, I knew no jury would receive that opportunity. Today was not to be about justice. Today was to be about theatrically displaying power. Impressive, and not yet over. My guard struck the hilt of his sword against my stand to help focus my attention on my situation. And focus I did. In sequential order, from my left to right, I could view the partial faces of THE NINE when their lights projected only enough illumination for them to read from what I believe were view pads. Not the chalked tablets of the CENTRAL DISTRICT AUTHORITIES, but view pads! Once again, my mind went racing back to my classes for an explanation I knew would not come. View pads. To see one meant bragging rights. To see nine fully functioning meant something else.

“Now class, could someone please explain the symbolism of Mr. Clark Humphry’s excursion toward his judgement?” Professor Barclay knew no one cared about Clark Humphry and his story. He built a machine and saved the world by curing hunger. We celebrate his birthday every year and learn just a few additional scraps about the man who feeds all 600 million people each day. Humphry was a father to us all. Humphry fed those who could have died during the wars. Humphry did this. Humphry did that. So what! I heard this all before. Each person here heard this story all before. All 40 cadets needed this one hour lecture prior to venturing out into the world tomorrow to make our mark. And make our mark we would! Not like previous classes who promised much and delivered nothing. No! My class would make history and rise through the system for our achievements, not our failures. I would lead them. I would make General before the age of 30.

“Cadet Andrews!” I stood at attention when even Professor Barclay called upon me.

“Cadet Andrews, if you could take some time from your busy schedule to correctly answer my question, I would be so obliged.” Professor Barclay’s passive aggressiveness does not become a scholar of his stature, but he outranked me, so answer I did. “Mr. Clark Humphry’s use of symbolism illustrates to the most uneducated the dire nature of his predicament. He was to stand trial on an as-of-yet charge associated with an as-of-yet crime.” I smile the smugness of the confident only a fraction of a second before incurring the wrath of Professor Barclay.

“Insolent fool, Cadet Andrews!” He threw an antiquated book (obviously there for this sole purpose) from his desktop at me. I stood at attention as it sailed wide right. “Cadet Andrews, if I wanted a plebe’s reply, I would have found a plebe to reply.” I remained at attention awaiting my turn to spar this nuisance to my career. It never came. However, the next word did.

“Attention!” We all automatically arose when Professor Barclay gave orders. “Cadet Andrews believes I am wasting her time. Cadet Andrews believes I am the impediment to her career advancement. I should even think Cadet Andrews believes I am boring her.” Now I became worried. Being singled out does not bode well before graduation, let alone for choice assignments. Even though the Professor was my superior officer, I didn’t report to him. I reported to the Commandant, and report to him I would.

“Well class, I shall illustrate to the most uneducated the dire nature of your predicament. Cadet Andrews shall remain. The rest of the Class of 114, you are dismissed. Congratulations on your impending graduation.”

I found my blood boiling with a rage never before challenging my training. I wanted to burn Professor Barclay. I wanted him gone. But, I remained at attention and mentally prepared myself for a fight in the time and place of my choosing.

“Sit down Cadet Andrews. Remain silent. As of today, you are a woman of limited choice.” With that, Professor Barclay removed the vid disk the class had been viewing and replaced it with one he removed from a small biometric safe he removed from his desk. The opening of the safe meant the hard locking of the classroom door. “What you are about to see is for your eyes only. By the order of the CENTRAL DISTRICT AUTHORITIES, you will never speak of it. By viewing this vid, you may consider this your first assignment as an officer.” With that simple monologue, Professor Barclay and I watched what really happened to Mr. Clark Humphry.

The beginning remained the same. The faces of THE NINE retained their eerie glow, but now the guard did not remain for the proceedings. He did not need to. Mr. Humphry retained complete focus throughout.

The first of THE NINE (the one on the left) spoke first to me. He asked for the record; who I am, where I live, and what I do for a living. He knew the answers to these three questions before he asked them. I told him I was Clark Humphry. I live in Boston. I was an engineer. I am now an inventor. The second from the left asked what did I invent? I played along. “I am the inventor of the Molecular Entropy Device, aka the MED.” The third from the left wanted to know the purpose of the MED. “The purpose of the MED is to disassociate the triple bonds of one molecule of molecular nitrogen to two molecules of atomic nitrogen. In doing so, any viable plant can fix the readily available nitrogen in a process of self- fertilization. Unlike previous attempts, the MED is neither catalytic nor photon activated. The power source is not as important as the process. I use the term entropy as a catch all to deflect the exact explanation of the MED from the unwashed masses. Needless to say, the MED will revolutionize the world as we know it.” Now the fourth spoke clearly, “How so?” I figured I would eventually hear from each and then be sentenced for whatever crime I committed. As long as I didn’t reveal the details of the MED, I might have a few cards to play during the endgame discussions.

“By fixing atomic nitrogen to viable food plants, self-fertilization occurs. By fixing a near infinite supply of nitrogen, you grow a near infinite supply of food plants. This can feed a huge population of humans and farm animals. Areas of the world barren to agriculture would instantly convert into farms. The Great Saharan Desert could be the Great Saharan corn field. The Gobi alone could feed the billions in close proximity. Imagine the quality of life increasing because each of the 15 billion people on Earth has an abundance of food to eat. Imagine how much capital might be freed for better uses if the few remaining fertile areas need not be guarded. Imagine the aquatic agricultural boom if the few remaining fish species found ample food to eat. To whatever the nine of you call yourselves, the MED can do nothing short of turning Earth away from today’s misery toward tomorrow’s future. All I ask is the opportunity to use the MED to benefit all of mankind and not waste another moment in this kangaroo court awaiting extortion and imprisonment.

Professor Barclay hit pause for a brief discussion. “Obviously, Cadet Andrews, this vid displays the time before the wars. Analyze what you have seen. Comment when you are ready.”

I found a new level of respect from the professor and wondered if it was meant to lure me into a sense of unearned trust. Our training included mental preparedness against torture so I remained guarded in my answer.

“Mr. Humphry displays a level of conceit often associated with inventors and academics who feel themselves above the law. My comment on the fairness of the law from that time has zero merit. Only the fact he feels superior to it matters.”

After a brief eyebrow raise from the good professor for the inclusion of academics, he continued with the vid.

The fifth of THE NINE had a gravelly voice with a Baltic accent. His words came slow with an undercurrent of something hidden. I expected much and listened accordingly.

“Mr. Humphry, please detail what you will do should we choose to let you go free? How will you finance the MED? Who are you associates? What other inventions will you move from the idea phase to the construction phase? Be specific. We are all very interested in what you have to say.”

They were never going to let me go. I knew this. THE NINE knew this. It was an age old story of a few seizing power and wealth for themselves at the expense of entire populations. So for whatever they may present themselves as, this group of nine was just a bunch of thieves. Highly connected, very powerful, extremely rich, but common group of thieves. So I told them so, via gesticulation.

I expected a retort, definitely physical, possibly mental, from either them or their lackeys. I waited awkwardly for what I was sure to arrive, but never did. What I did receive was a laugh. First from the fifth, then from them all. An extended coarse laugh meant to be a painful to hear when directed at no one as it was when directed at me. For two minutes, each of THE NINE laughed at me. When it began to slow, the sixth took his turn at speaking.

“Cadet Andrews”. The professor’s voice simultaneously matched the pausing of the vid. “I spoke earlier of you having limited choices. Allow me to clarify that statement. You actually have only one choice. You may continue viewing this vid and accept the assignment associated with it or. . .” I knew what the impending OR was. I was to be privy to information few may even knew existed. I was to be part of the inner circle. Maybe even a ticket to THE NINE. I would be a fool to reject Professor Barclay’s offer; even half an offer. I went all in when I spoke the words, “I want this assignment.”

Professor Barclay smiled a crooked grin; the type of grin of someone who knows more than he lets on. He spoke of casting the die or the die was cast or some sort of archaic nomenclature. I must have been gloating when the vid began again.

The voice of the sixth began in sharp pitch dictation. His was all facts and no emotion. He spoke of Earth as it really was. He told me of the problems. There were too many people already. There were too many in prison. There were too many wars. There were too few resources. There were too many weapons. There was too much suffering. There was too little time. Despite all anyone ever did, there were too many questions and not enough answers. Nothing anyone could do helped to solve the fundamental problem facing Earth of too many people wanting to create too many more people. The rest nodded in agreement. The seventh rose and spoke in a completely different tone. He spoke with desperation. He spoke with trepidation. He addressed me personally.

“Mr. Clark Humphry, we need your assistance. We need the MED. We need you to use the MED. We just need you to use it in a different way.” I informed the seventh that I would listen.

“Earth is dying. Man is dying. We, THE NINE, have been able to control the death but we cannot do anything to stop it. We are not even in agreement if we should postpone the inevitable. Earth will die if we do nothing. Earth will die if we do something. The result is preordained. Even as I speak, word is spreading about the MED. With it, 15 billion will become 20 billion. They may have food. But what if they all want land? What if they all want a home, a doctor, an education, or a higher quality of life? What if they want more children? What if they want a future? What if they want hope?”

I had to reply. “I can give them that hope. The MED can give them all they desire. Why can you not see this?”

I let this sink in before I drew breath to continue. However, the eighth raised his hand and motioned for the seventh to sit. His was a voice of reason, nothing more, and nothing less. “Mr. Humphry. We have calculated the MED can do all you say it can do. But for how long? The 20 billion will soon become the 30 billion, then the 40 billion. We, THE NINE, can no longer resist the pressure of the 15 billion. Please do not add to the problem for we have a way for you to solve the problem.”

I heard all the first seven had to say. For the first time I now was dying to hear what the last two were to say. I was glad I had the time and the solitude away from others to do so.

The eighth began a proposal I knew no one could believe. It was rash and brash. It was unbelievable. And it began as such. “Mr. Clark Humphry, you are a man of limited choices. In reality, you have but one. Either you can do what must be done, or you can watch the last days of Earth.”

I told the eighth I was listening.

“Mr. Humphry, you must use the MED to reduce the human population to a more sustainable size. The ninth among us has already reversed engineered your device and knows this to be possible. What we want you to accomplish is to eliminate, to remove, to murder, to kill, or whatever your conscious requires you to name it, as many people as possible in the shortest period of time, without anyone knowing. We want you to dissociate all the molecular bonds within a human so they return to their atomic components leaving no tangible evidence.”

Playing Devil’s Advocate, I plied THE NINE for more information. “You want me to use the MED to turn people into piles of calcium and carbon off-gassing oxygen and hydrogen?” The eighth said yes. “You want me to reduce the world population under the guise of helping feed the world?” Again the eighth said yes. “Just how many people do you want me to kill?” Without a change in tone, the eighth replied, “14.5 billion people before the end of the year. When you succeed, and succeed you must, that day will be known as PLEASANTNESS and you will be known as the man who saved the human race.”

I was shocked. Who wouldn’t be? Was all this a joke? Who could devise such a plan? Forget all of the wars of history. Success for me would make me the greatest villain in the galaxy.

PLEASANTNESS my ass! I told THE NINE as such. They expected my reply. The eighth rose first then the remaining eight together. The eighth spoke for the rest. “We, THE NINE, concluded you would not be a part of this plan. We concluded you have the means but not the desire. Regrettably, it has come to this. PLEASANTNESS is already in full motion. The few remaining resources are manufacturing the MED for installation worldwide. Mr. Clark Humphry, you are not the desirable citizen capable of performing the one task you should perform. As such, we sentence you to life. Not life in prison. We sentence you to a hero’s life. We will never speak of this meeting. You can do as you wish. Wherever you go, the remaining population will greet you as the savior you should have been. The remaining ones will sing your praises and name their children after you. The suffering will be great, but, because of you, Mr. Clark Humphry, not all will suffer. Humanity will have PLEASANTNESS. Thank you for your cooperation.”

In the final diatribe, my guard returned and restrained me until THE NINE left. Then the guard left. True to their word, I was free to go. I was free to go and watch the monumental accumulation of elements wherever I went. I tried to explain. I tried to stop it all. No one listened. It was as if everyone bet they would be one of the survivors. And THE NINE were right. The survivors revered me as a god. I made the Sun shine. I returned the quality of life everyone read about in history books. And I met baby Clarks and baby Humphrys wherever I went. The Earth had the population’s PLEASANTNESS. I had the Earth’s guilt.

The final entry on the vid showed Mr. Clark Humphry committing suicide with a MED on his 42 birthday.

Professor Barclay did not have to pause the vid. He did do what he was ordered to do. In accepting my assignment, Colonel Barclay field promoted me to the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade and assigned me to visit the Hall of THE NINE. The current world population was 600 million, 100 million more than was necessary. Colonel Barclay handed me a vid on the schematics of the MED and ordered me to familiarize myself to its operation.

Much like Mr. Humphry, I had a difficult task ahead of me.

Only A Dream, Jesus!

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved

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Disclaimer: “I’m part of the Precariat, hands off my small change!” - No warranties! Read at your own risk, or skip it.

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License note: The German original runs under a Creative Commons license, but, so far, I did not sign one for translation rights OR my works in other languages.

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The story begins:

It was a moonless night, dark and windy. Still, the city was burning in several places. The sounds of fighting and occasional death cry from every direction. In contrast to that, nigh absurdly mundane, occasional family cars and some helicopters in the sky.

Like so many others, two friends also rushed through the night. Trans person Jaycee and Boredom’s Paragon (heterosexual), Effro Brough. Both had, proverbially, already been fisted (overwhelmed) by panic and danger.

No surprise, for the last ten minutes alone had included witnessing three rapes, riots, and a guessed fifteen bloody murders.

There was a lot more of injustice committed, but as with anybody else, the duo was limited to the individual perception.

`To the army barracks, or the nearest police station, or out of this city!´, shouted Jaycee to Effro.

Effro fell short of stopping to move on, dumbstruck.

`No! To the church.´, Effro insisted fiercely solemnly.

`They will not go soft on churches, the synagogue and the mosque are already burning, too!´, argued Jaycee.

Again, Effro was so touched by Jaycee’s remark that he nearly stopped moving.

`Do you suffer amnesia or blackouts? Bullets, blades, or batons cannot stop these fiends!´, inquired Effro.

Memories of the costumed assailants made their way back into Jaycee’s mind. They looked like phantoms from a nightmare, but this was the real world. More, than psychos on military drugs, or disguised, hostile soldiers they could not be for real!

`We will help. NOW!´, came Jaycee’s decision to make a stand.

The warrior-trans person charged a nearby psycho-phantom, body-checking it brutally, thereby slamming it off its victim.

The victim, a woman, stared at Jaycee in utter disbelief.

`Let me die, run to the church!´, spoke the violated woman, while she spat blood.

Now, it was Jaycee’s turn to hesitate and be dumbstruck. But, before he could the phantom attacked anew and had to be put down by a fast and hard combo of punches by Jaycee.

`Jaycee, we must reach the church. Bashing demons won’t help anyone!´

Jaycee turned back and forth, even with Effro’s pull on his shoulder. The mere thought of abandoning civilians was against his most innate convictions.

`I can’t just watch them suffer!´, screamed Jaycee.

`They know. Stop blaming yourself. To the church, quickly!´, bitched Effro, who by now looked stressed out as beep.

Cautious jogging only two streets further made the oft-mentioned church finally come into their line of sight. Just another besieged building.

`You are still sure that your faith will protect us?´, asked Jaycee.

Again, and more severely than before, Effro nearly froze when hearing that.

`Check on that with your daddy!´, muttered Effro finally.

People around saw Jaycee and also began to move toward the church. So did the first mob of phantoms.

Jaycee and Effro ran to the church’s front door.

Jaycee watched around, worried, toward the other civilians. Precious seconds were wasted, while their pursuers closed on in on them all.

Effro, losing patience, pushed Jaycee through the opened church door.

Inside the church, there awaited nothing `sanctified´.

Shattered windows, blood, and the valiant few people, who tried to resist the phantom onslaught. Simple barricades under a Christian cross.

Jaycee still did not understand, why they all seemed to care more about the church than about thwarting off the attackers.

The phantoms were close, and they did fiercer than ferocious movie werewolves and hungry zombies tended to do.

`To the crucifix!´, shouted Effro once more.

Jaycee made one step back, then two steps toward the enemies. Instincts urged to protect and defend, not craven withdrawal. Warrior souls often had a problem with such.

`Move to that goddamn cross, else we all will be butchered here like helpless cattle!´, screamed Effro at Jaycee. (No cattle deserve that, animal lives matter! -> The author)

The hatred in Effro’s eyes was real, but clearly the same was true of his companion’s worry and loyalty.

It seemed, Effro at least believed Jaycee to make a fatal mistake by his choice.

Jaycee made three quick, wide steps toward the altar, above which the mentioned crucifix hung high. But, when people again screamed in pain, attacked by the homicidal phantoms, he turned around once more.

Before Jaycee could charge into battle, Effro had wrestled him into a hold and pushed him toward the altar. Not for fun, for even a struggling Jaycee could see that his friend was in dire pain and wouldn’t last much longer.

`I will not abandon a friend in need!´, declared Jaycee.

`Neither will I, but your father, like it or not, sadly is correct with his assessment on the topic.´, managed Effro to reply in his struggle.

Inevitably, Effro succumbed to the pain. Simultaneously, Jaycee felt a power surging from behind him, a force long not felt. He was about to turn toward it, but once more the phantoms made him stare at the enemy, as more of them charged into the church.

`Friends, and once brothers in arms, but I CANNOT go with you any further.´, recited Effro.

Jaycee only felt a soft, gentle backward pull, something so beyond physics that Jaycee didn’t want to resist it. Fire, toxic smoke, and even the hateful phantoms lost all meaning.

But not Effro, a friend left behind, just like the valiant few, who risked their lives resisting the phantoms.

`Father!´, screamed Jaycee, with a righteous fury and a vengeance on seeing injustice winning.

Yes, Jaycee screamed: Father. All of us others would have, my guess, instead screamed: `God!´.

The end

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Only read this add-on, if you want to know the story-intent:

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In this dream turned fiction: Jaycee, JC, J.C., Jesus Christus doesn’t remember the past, unaware that he cannot just pull friends out of Hell. Effro instead, eternally damned and an enemy of God, is fully aware of such, hence, his jaw drops, when Jaycee asks HIM about faith in protecting & saving anyone (role reversal). Effro weakens, as the cross aka crucifix symbolizes the imminent presence of God (divine providence), where Effro remains unwelcome forever, but which also is the guaranteed safety for Jaycee. Effro hurts but attempts to save the forgetful Jaycee nonetheless. Finally, while still confused and amnesiac, Jaycee trusts his urges, albeit in a rude way, and challenges his father to revise old decrees and sorta kick phantom butts.

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A prayer for the lost ones?

God Almighty, who thou art rumored to be full of mercy: Find it within your grace, please, to make the money & stamina come to me, so I can fund all of those forlorn souls, who would be better off, when my fiction is turned into short films as we know them from #Alter and #Screamfest.

Let me bear the burdens of luxury, doing expensive drux, and banging upper class prostitutes, so all the others can cleanse their souls by being stuck in underpaid jobs and spartan existences..? Amen.

( I felt a bit like inventing `the heretic arts´, when writing this prayer, but it also reveals the human factor we all are guilty of: Selfishness and disregard for the well-being of others and true justice. A note -> The author )

Last, but not least:

Gifting me money is possible! Or, so it seems:

l http://paypal.me/AMPietroschek

l https://www.buymeacoffee.com/pietroschek