AD Jameson
A D Jameson received and M.A. in English from Illinois State University in 2004. While a student there, he worked for Dalkey Archive Press and as the layout editor for American Book Review. He also co-founded and co-edited the zine formerly known as l'bourgeoizine, bourgeoizine.pabn.org, which published work by Curtis White, Catherine Daly, Mark Tardi, kari edwards, Gabe Gudding, Jeff VanderMeer, and others. After graduating, he taught three semesters of English as a Second Language in Bangkok, Thailand. He now lives in Chicago and teaches ESL at DePaul University. His short stories have appeared in the Mississippi Review online and elimae. He's directed music videos for the Kill Rock Stars bands Xiu Xiu
and Mecca Normal.
Assassin
They are playing Assassin in my city, all of them; they are all of them
trying to kill me. But I will kill them first. I will kill them first.
My friend explained: "Assassin, the friendly icebreaker game where they
assign you a target, and you're assigned to others as a target, and events
proceed with everyone taking aside and 'killing' one other until only one
is left alive, and they're the big winner, the bravest and best Assassin.
You can 'kill' each other in any number of ways decided upon beforehand:
touch with an eraser, or whisper a secret word if you don't want touching.
"It's a fun game," she says, "a fun time, with its roots in the New
Testament. Jesus told Peter, 'Envision a game, the goal to eliminate all
other players, to secure glory for God and for yourself.' True story."
They herded us into this room, where they stripped and deloused us and
shaved our heads. Physicals deemed us fit. They gave us the names of
people to assassinate. We won't get our clothes back until all our targets
are dead.
I have this girl's name (I'll call her Victim S.), and I have her address
and the title of her favorite movie. My orders are to whisper the movie's
name in her ear without anyone observing. I don't know Victim S. and I
harbor no ill will toward her. I can't imagine her crimes but know they're
severe.
I plan to get to know Victim S., maybe bump into her at the laundry, to
be awkwardly polite but maintain a quiet intensity, and after another
chance meeting we'll discover interests in common, leading to a delightful
conversation, both of us losing track of the time, and then a tentative
offer, an offer accepted, and the next night a walk to the club, our
conversation shy, then drinks at the club, then dancing, then more drinks,
and then the great need for someplace we can talk, talking suddenly
urgent, great quiet necessary, us leaving together.
To go somewhere neutral but laden with potential: a park bench, the edge
of a fountain. Admiring nature. Discussing our jobs. Nervous laughter.
A moment of thoughtful attention: a soft kiss on her cheek, her hand warm
in mine and her eyes lightly closed, her perfume stronger. Another kiss on
the cheek, and then her ear, and while kissing I'll whisper this into her
ear, I'll whisper:
"At Play in the Fields of the Lord." Her hand tightens. "At Play in
the Fields of the Lord."
I've researched my assignment. Victim S. masquerades as a doctoral
candidate, a quiet, studious woman with interests in animal science, jazz,
and At Play in the Fields of the Lord. I've gotta take her out.
There's a danger in all of this: As I follow Victim S., from her morning
lecture to the café where she nibbles a bagel to the lab where she does
her research—all this time I am myself hunted—hunted, possibly, by a
superior assassin. I glance repeatedly over my shoulder. I dread warm
breath on my temple.
My favorite film? The Age of Innocence.
("There's no such thing," she whispers in my ear.)
They've got me naked and tied in that supply closet, mops jabbing my
sides, and outside they're arguing about whether they'll use gas, or
electrodes, or just slit my throat, and you're swelling from where they've
beat you and you should be working at the ropes. That's the point of the
game, of course. Get out. Meet new people. Make many new friends.
There are rules we must follow and you must follow them when you organize
your own Assassin game: No hitting below the belt; no one likes that. You
can't assassinate your target in the bedroom or the bathroom, because your
target will throw sex or feces at you. No one likes that.
Those are the basic rules. Now play!
I was younger, in fifth grade, and my class learned the game Assassin.
And the game was bad, so bad; the game came into our classroom and tripped
us up. It retied our shoelaces around the legs of our chairs. "Untie us!"
we all cried. "Untie me! Let me go!" And the game said "No." No, no, no,
no, no.