Assassin Yoga

Assassin Yoga (500 words-max flash fiction)

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved

Disclaimer: No warranties!

Reader Info: A piece of flash fiction that was rejected by arrogant UK publishers. The author felt too old for real `warrior yoga´, so he pseudo-invented `assassin yoga´ to write crime fiction. 

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 kinda 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!  ;-)

Now, instead of the version that I invented while writing it (above), here is what AI made of it in less than 2 minutes. Problem is, such AI's demand monthly subscription fees, and at $ 99,- per month, I could even get an AI that writes a novel with zero grammar mistakes, creates a fitting over, and registers a real ISBN for it. Simplified: In my opinion, the age of novelists has been ended by AI.

Version 2, AI supported: 

The fluorescent hum of the university library pressed in, a stark contrast to the internal chaos brewing within the protagonist. She had taken the assignment, a seemingly innocuous research task on 'Assassin Yoga,' despite the unsettling cheers from past rivals. A cold dread, a 'buttwater flushing' sensation, had become her constant companion. This wasn't just a job; it was a trap. The academic who offered it, Professor Sterling, clearly intended for her to shoulder all the risk, only to claim the glory himself. But ambition, a fierce, burning need to get ahead, propelled her forward. She settled into a worn chair, laptop open, determined to ignore the 'treacherous third shiver' that warned of impending doom. Her initial search was a sterile cross-referencing of the university's intranet with public internet data. The library, usually a sanctuary, now felt like a graveyard. 

The first red flag materialized: Professor Dorsey, once a celebrated figure in 'India's effect on modern-day lifestyles,' had been disgraced, his research on yoga ending abruptly with public LSD sessions. Then came the chilling discovery of Doctor Harris, Dorsey's assistant, found dead in the campus parking lot, her throat cut. The official police report, a mugging by a homeless person, reeked of a cover-up. Harris, an instructor for campus security, knew that lot intimately. The 'buttwater flushed' again, a wave of nausea. The next revelation was even more personal: her original predecessor, an assistant on this very project, had committed suicide by jumping from his apartment window, just weeks before graduation, with no history of mental illness. Her eyes bulged. This wasn't just a risky job; it was a death sentence. The most recent predecessor had succumbed to 'food poisoning' followed by a 'wrong medication' injection. Panic clawed at her throat. She desperately needed her criminal contact, Leroy Pryce-Splendor, but he was, predictably, in prison. Her stomach cramped. 

The words 'Assassin Yoga' now glowed ominously on her browser. A cold, dissociative terror gripped her, like the opening scene of a horror film. She considered fleeing, changing identities, but knew no one who could help. Gina and Mandy, her only friends, were at different universities. Wiping her laptop, she fled the campus, the 'buttwater' leaving a damp stain on the library chair. She walked aimlessly through the night, the city lights blurring into an indifferent haze. The thought of a rural escape, a life devoid of academia and the internet, became her sole focus. She boarded a train, seeking anonymity, and eventually found a cheap motel. The shower, hot and cleansing, temporarily calmed her frayed nerves. Walking to the front desk, she intended to ask about food. 

The clerk, a kindly older woman, smiled. 'Mises Jane Doe, your husband already handled the pizza order!' The words hung in the air, a final, terrifying pronouncement. 'I never married,' she whispered, just as the first muffled shots echoed from the hallway, followed by the wet thud of a body. The clerk, splattered with blood, stared blankly as the world went silent.