Minimalist Fiction: Assassin Yoga! Two versions of the story.

Assassin Yoga - Wendy McCandy Edition

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, pronounced Peetrohshack, all rights reserved  

Disclaimer: No warranties!

Reader Info: The first edition was in an APP format, which included multiple images and almost turned it into a comic. This version is meant to keep it alive until I think about whether an extended edition might be one of those profitable things that the muses sometimes provide, which I have often missed out on in my life. Today, my latest narrator, the angry AI voice I named Wendy McCandy in a previous story available for free on YouTube instead of Ticky Tocky or Twitchy Bitchy, is going to help this neglected story become popular as soon as possible. 

Now, to make everything less dull, we start this story with the alternate version, as suggested by the AI:

The university library buzzed with fluorescent lights, contrasting sharply with the turmoil inside the main character. She had accepted the assignment, which seemed like a simple research task on 'Assassin Yoga,' despite the unsettling excitement from previous competitors. A feeling of cold dread, a sensation she referred to as 'buttwater flushing,' had become her constant companion. This was not merely a job; it was a trap. The academic who had given it to her, Professor Sterling, clearly wanted her to bear all the risks while he took the credit. But her ambition, a strong desire to get ahead, pushed her onward.

She sat down in a worn chair, her laptop opened, trying to ignore the 'treacherous third shiver' that warned her of danger. Her first search was a dry cross-referencing of the university's intranet with public internet information. The library, usually a safe haven, felt more like a graveyard at that moment. The first warning sign appeared: Professor Dorsey, once a prominent figure in the study of 'India's effect on modern lifestyles,' had been disgraced, his research on yoga abruptly ending after he live-streamed his private LSD sessions. Then came the shocking news about Doctor Harris, Dorsey's assistant, found dead in the campus parking lot with her throat cut. The police report claimed it was a mugging by a homeless person, but it felt like a cover-up. Harris, who taught campus security, was very familiar with that parking lot.

The 'buttwater flushed' again, making her feel nauseous. The next piece of information was even more personal: her predecessor, an assistant on this same project, had jumped from his apartment window just weeks before graduation, with no previous signs of mental illness. Her eyes widened. This was not just a risky job; it was a death sentence. The last predecessor had died from 'food poisoning' followed by an incorrect medication injection. Panic tightened her throat. She needed her criminal contact, Leroy Pryce-Splendor, but he was predictably in prison. Her stomach knotted. The term 'Assassin Yoga' now glowed ominously on her screen. A cold, dissociative terror took hold, reminiscent of the beginning of a horror movie.

She thought about running away, changing her identity, but she had no one to help her. Her only friends, Gina and Mandy, were at different universities. Wiping her laptop clean, she left the campus, the 'buttwater' leaving a mark on the library chair. She wandered through the night, the city lights fading into a blurry background. The idea of escaping to a rural place, away from academia and the internet, became her only thought. She took a train, seeking anonymity, and eventually found a cheap motel. The hot shower helped calm her nerves for a while. When she approached the front desk to ask about food, the clerk, an older woman, smiled and said, 'Mises Jane Doe, your husband already ordered the pizza!'

Those words hung heavily in the air, a terrifying statement. 'I never married,' she whispered, just as muffled gunshots echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. The clerk, covered in blood, stared blankly as silence enveloped the world.

The original draft story begins:

Recital to set the mood: The best way to hide something illegal is right in the public eye!

I knew the job was dangerous when everyone who had opposed me in the past cheered at my decision to take it. I could feel my buttwater flushing and shivers running down my spine, with the treacherous third shiver making its presence known, if you understand the meaning instead of being dull, foolish, and boring.

Lesser academic research. Yes, in this alternate reality, Wendy McCandy was not killed by her supposed friend in that fake haunted house, but instead made it to university.

Find any form or image of assassin yoga that proves it is not merely a renamed version of warrior yoga. I felt shivers running down my spine, and my buttwater flushed when I realized that the treacherous third shiver was nearly falling in love with the risky job that kept the truth hidden under the proverbial rug.

It truly sounded like the kind of task that overpaid academics assign to their assistant lackeys just before graduation. It was easy to sense his plan was for me to take all the risks and do all the work, while he would then act like it was his achievement all along.

But getting ahead would not work any other way, so I opened my laptop and sat down in the central library of our university.

Starting my first research. My mind was set on not letting the third shiver distract me, certainly up to no good again. A wicked neurological phenomenon.

I was cross-indexing the research files from our university intranet with public information from my internet searches. I was surrounded by young students, and I felt a rush of excitement, but I kept my focus. For now, career matters were more important than anything else.

It soon felt like walking through a graveyard, and I felt the shivers rush down my spine again with another cold sensation.

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

Strange times, a peculiar way to ruin his scientific reputation.

Doctor Harris, the female assistant of the former professor, was found dead in the campus parking lot. Her throat was cut. The police determined that a homeless person had violently mugged her. My buttwater flushed into the seat as the clumsy cover-up made me feel sick, but I maintained my composure, as that third shiver would not find me weak.

Since Doctor Harris was also an instructor for campus security guards, and she knew that parking lot from countless patrols, it was another strange coincidence.

My original predecessor, the assistant, had killed himself by jumping out of a window in his apartment about four weeks before graduation, with a beautiful girlfriend on campus and no history of mental health issues. My eyes widened, and the shivers raced down my spine as the risky job I had taken now seemed like a potential assassination by another corrupt superior at the university.

The most recent predecessor had a tragic case of food poisoning, followed by an incorrect medication injected by emergency personnel at the nearest hospital. I felt tempted to call Leroy Pryce-Splendor, my criminal contact, but he was once again in prison, proving useless when he did not show up for me. Selfish fool, boring. Oh yes, the routine was turning into a danger zone, I should stay focused.

I felt my stomach clench as I read through the notes on my laptop, with 'Assassin Yoga' already showing up in my browser search. No shivers ran down my spine here, but my mouth went dry, and I felt disconnected from my surroundings, as if I were in the early minutes of an old Final Destination movie.

My thoughts raced, but I did not know any student who looked enough like me to switch identities. I also had no chance to rely on Gina or Mandy, as student life had separated us when we were accepted into different universities.

So, I wiped my laptop clean and left the campus. Of course, not without having a guilty pleasure moment of buttwatering the seats.

Wandering through the night, I thought about starting over far away. Something rural, with a job that was not academic at all, and a lifestyle that did not involve being online too much.

I took a train ride, moving away from the popular parts of the city, and finally decided to spend my limited money on a motel room.

The best shower of my life, as my nerves finally calmed down.

I walked to the clerk, planning to ask about food delivery and drinks.

'Mises Jane Doe, your husband already ordered the pizza!' said the clerk.

'I never married.'

THE END, as sound-suppressed shots cannot be heard by someone shot three times in the head. Nor by a shocked clerk covered in blood!