Mary, like many of her colleagues, was an ideal office drone. She did what she was told, within reason. She came in even when she was sick because otherwise the bosses might think that she lacked dedication and would remember it when they handed out the annual raises. She embraced a policy of non-confrontation because who needed the stress? She worked hard when she was at work, but left it all there when she went home. She didn't think about project deadlines or corporate presentations when her foot was out the door every day.

Management found Mary very agreeable (whether or not she genuinely was) and this was unfortunate when they approached her today. For Mary was having a bad day. The office intern had lost her project book that he was supposed to go make copies of. She ran late that morning and bypassed her coffee stop, so she had to resort to the office coffee, which someone clumsily spilled on her blouse. Mary was wholly not agreeable today.

So when they came and asked her to fill in at the eleventh hour to take over a quality assurance report from one of her incompetent counterparts, they did not receive the answer they expected. After they asked, they were about to leave, already expecting a yes, the heard the unthinkable.

"No," she said, without malice or emotion. Just no.

They asked her if she was busy with something else.

"Yes," she said, with no clarification.

The truth of the matter was that she was busy with other projects, but she would usually have made time for the report had they asked for her help. But she was not feeling helpful today. She was tired of doing others people's work and her policy of non-confrontation was temporarily lifted. Today, she could not brush it off. A plastic smile and pleases and thank yous would not be enough.

They walked away, dumbfounded, having never been so succinctly and tersely rejected. The rest of the day, Mary's coworkers whispered about her stance against the corner office lackeys. Amazing, they thought. Unbelievable, they thought, with no small amount of admiration.

At the end of the day, Mary left work as usual, without a care in the world after stepping out the door, and an extra bounce in her step.

Carnaval

Roberto slipped on his reading glasses for the finishing touches, feathering red paint around the underside of the model's breast. It had been a long three hours and as much as he enjoyed the art, he was glad to be done soon. The model fidgeted, tired from standing in his studio for so long, naked no less.

"Hold still," he said.

"Are you done? This paint itches."

"That'll go away."

He stood a few feet back and admired his work.

"All done," he said.

She stepped down from the pedestal, a phoenix off her perch. In two days, she would be gyrating and flitting around on a float, dancing into a sweaty frenzy. Music will sound, saturating the street in rhythmic nirvana. Carnaval is here.

NY

Lights explode in Times Square on a Friday night. The city is alive. At the stroke of midnight, the streets are still teeming with people dressed for a night on the town. Elsewhere across the country, sleepy hamlets have already started their nights, but in New York City, the scene is coming into full swing. There will be dancing and drinking and merry to be made until the last reveler clambers unbalanced into a yellow cab.

Personal Workspaces

Management's original idea was to create a more organic office environment where every worker would feel as if their six by six cubicle was an extension of their own home. The effort was to make it less sterile, less like an office. It would, the management decided, make their employees more at ease, and lead to an overall better attitude, a sunnier disposition, which would lead to higher productivity.

Whether or not this new initiative would bring results is still yet to be determined, but what it has brought--to no small amusement--is a completely different workspace. Gone are the grayness of bare cubicle walls. Gone are plainly undecorated desks. We are now a panoply of colors, awash in knick-knacks, inundated with photos of family, significant others, and pets.

Greg has long described in excrutiating detail how large his family is. Thanks to management's new decree, we now no longer need to listen to him go through his family tree. It is all there in glossy finish, covering every square inch of free space around his desk and walls.

Sarah, having an abundance of bobblehead dolls at home, decided to relocated about thirty of them to work, and she claims that this is only a tenth of her collection. Now, whenever we stop by her desk, it is both customary and irresistable to tap a few on the head before leaving. She does not enjoy this.

James brought a hammock. It is a miracle of space efficiency that he has been able to fit it inside his small work area. I am dubious that this addition in any way increases his efficiency however.

For myself, I did not bring anything to adorn my walls or desk. I have an MP3 player which I had before they were even allowed because I was bored out of my mind, but that is it. I did add a door, something which is probably outside the rules of the new corporate mantra. Now people must knock before they disturb me, which I find most advantageous to both getting and not getting work done.

Imperial Reconnaissance of the Galactic Variety

Two alien life forms are hunkered over monitoring equipment at a forward command post ten light years from Earth. They scan our broadcasts, deciphering our telecasts, figuring out what makes us tick. Anything could be important for the invasion.

They found us by our feeler space messages, send in a universally understood language of mathematics. And once they located us, translating our world's different tongues was no hard task for a race many times over more intelligent than ours.

"These beings are formidable," one says to another. "They talk about death and violence every day. Look at these news stories. Murder. Rape. War."

"It does raise some questions. We shall report our findings most hastily. Precautions must be taken. They do not seem perturbed by their violent tendencies. Only when it affects to them directly does it appear that they care in the least."

"And their forms of entertainment. Have you see their movies and television shows? They watch the same depraved actions for fun. As if it is not enough that it happens in real life, they must be shown more of it for entertainment!"

"Yes, they might be quite formidable indeed, for ones that seem so immune to threats, accustomed to death and destruction. It will be a long struggle to conquer them. Yes, it will take many lives."

"Perhaps our first contact, we shall not bother with introductions."

"What is your suggestion?"

"If they do not have the time for it, they cannot resist us. We can destroy all of them from orbit if need be. There is no need for losses on our side if they cannot be reasoned with. We can clean up the survivors afterwards. That would not be difficult."

"You make a good point."

"It might be good for them. It will be the greatest show on the planet."

"Oh yes. Won't it be exciting?"

Pray For Me, Father

He was barely breathing now. He had been on the other side of the confessional.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned," I had said to him. It was the first time I've been to church in many years.

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Long enough."

"What would you like to tell me?"

"I have killed, Father. There is blood on my hands."

"When have you killed?"

"Last night. And a week before that. The hunger for it is growing. I don't think I can control it."

There had been an uncertainty in his voice after that revelation.

"And yet you tell me this. This...this is a sign that you would like to stop. It is a good thing."

"You're mistaken. I have no intention of stopping. I don't want to stop."

There had been a silence after that. And then he spoke.

"Why are you here then? Forgiveness? I cannot forgive if you do not repent."

"I just needed someone to talk to. I have no one to talk to."

He had had nothing to say to this. This was virgin territory for him I'm sure. I hadn't blamed him.

"Father?" I said.

"Yes, my son."

"Thank for listening. And I'm sorry."

"You need not apologize to me. You must repent your sins before God."

"No. I'm sorry for what I'm about to do."

That is when I left my side of the confessional, entered his, and strangled him. You may not believe me, but I am sorry he was dead. He had been a good listener,

The Thief in Me

There are rumors circulating that I am a thief, a swindler, someone not to be trusted with money or small children. These outrageous accusations are at best, exaggerations. You steal--no, take--one lousy chair and all of a sudden you're an embezzler. I like to think that I'm smart, but criminal mastermind I am not.

We were getting new chairs, ones with lumbar support or some other catchy term. Bottom line: the new chairs were supposed to be ergonomic and would therefore increase worker production. So I took one of the old chairs (mine, in fact) and took it to my car at the end of the day. No big deal right? Wrong.

Jen in HR reported me and now I am without a job and no severance. They claim I was stealing company property. Where were the old chairs going, I had demanded? I got nothing in return but cold stares.

I don't know why Jen reported me, but I suspect it is because she has been harboring a grudge for me. When I first got here, I made it a point to be friendly to everyone, because I was a schmuck. I thought that would get me places, develop connections. I made the mistake of being friendly to Jen, who I am sorry to say, is a rotund girl. She mistook my friendliness for attraction and when she found out I wasn't interested, she grew cold, like an igloo.

God, what a bitch.

Counting Down

Mary closed her eyes, heard the rush of air when they opened the small prop plane's door. Two miles above the Earth's surface, she readied herself. Her partner checked her harness and the pilot gave them the thumbs up. Mary took two deep breaths, looked out the open door at the world below. She placed earbuds in her ear, turned up the volume on her MP3 player, and jumped. She was flying.

Roleplay

Nate entered the apartment in his interview attire, took off his suit jacket, and slumped down onto the couch next to his sporadically employed roommate.

"How's it going?" he asked.

Jimmy shrugged, returned to his television show. Nate got up and scoured for something edible in the kitchen.

"Didn't you have an audition today?"

Jimmy's attention piqued with this question.

"Nope. That was last week. It was for a commercial. A cereal."

"Oh. How did it go?"

"Still waiting to hear from them, but someone I know on the inside says that I'm on the short list."

"That's great. Didn't you have something going on today though?"

"That? I just had an appointment with the dialect coach," said Jimmy.

Nate found some cookies on the top of the refridgerator. He returned to the couch with them in hand.

"Since when did you go to one?"

"My agent says I need to expand my skillset. Next week is a stage combat class. I'm learning a British accent right now. Did you know there was more than one?"

"Speaking of acting," Nate said in between mouthfuls of cookie, "I need your help with a reference."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow.

"They asked for references at the interview today and I couldn't give them any names from the last place after what happened. I panicked. I made something up. I gave them your number."

Jimmy threw him an annoyed look.

"Look, I know I said the last time that it was the last time, but I need this. So can you just play along if they call? Think of it as an audition without a script."

Jimmy sighed. "Fine. Who am I?"

"Roger Hermann. I told them I was his personal assistant for eight months last year."

"Can I use my southern accent? I could use the practice. Or maybe the British stuff I've got going now."

Against his better judgement, Nate said that was fine. At least Jimmy was getting excited about it now.

"What's my motivation?" he asked.

"Your motivation is to get me a job so I can pay for my share of next month's rent."

"That's pretty good motivation, but what about my character's essence? Does he have kids? Is he happy with his life? Does he like Thai food or Italian."

Nate was exasperated. He'd unleashed a monster. "Please, just keep it simple. Just tell them I did a good job, all the normal basic stuff. Don't get carried away."

"Who, me?"

"Remember last time? When you told them I carried three people out of a fire? All at once?"

"Okay, that was overkill," Jimmy said, grinning ear-to-ear.

"So, I can count on you?"

"Consider it done. Think nothing of it, my good man," he said in an accent that was neither southern nor British, bowing dramatically while twirling his hand.

Starry Starry Night

They don't have night skies like this back home. There are too many skyscrapers. Maybe there are too many lights. I hardly ever see any stars; once in a while there is one lonely one. But here tonight, there are too many to count. There are hundreds--no, maybe thousands. They are bright specks that flicker in a blck background. When I look at them long enough, it feels as if I can see which ones are farther away. If I stare long enough, I can almost see evidence of the Earth's movement, see these celestial bodies shift one millimeter at a time.

Anew

The old soothsayer hands me an old dusty box and tells me it's a gift. I should open it, he says to me. Tells me that it will change my life. When I slip off its cover, there is nothing inside. He tells me to look closer, so I indulge him. The box is very small, the kind that might hold a ring. When I move closer to it, it starts to vibrate, then light strobes from within its interior. Then there is a flash, and I lose consciousness. When I wake up, the old man is gone. The box is in my hand and I am in a park, in a city I do not recognize. In the pond at the park, I do not recognize my reflection.

The First Sign

He leaned over the bathroom sink some more, so much so that he was merely inches from the mirror, nearly pressing up against it. He had been brushing his teeth when he spotted the blemish, a crinkle of folded skin at the corner of eye. With a mouthful of foamy toothpaste, he studied his face, turning this way and that, examining the wrinkle from all angles. He'd never seen it before. When did it appear? Maybe his skin was just dry. He pressed down with his fingers and pulled the skin taught around the offending wrinkle and then let go. He did this several times, watching the skin reform into a tiny valley each time, like a tributary from an eyelash. He dabbed some lotion and rubbed it in, finished brushing, and got ready for his first day of work.

He's Killed for Less

The nervous man walks into the room, pushes the door close. It swings shut faster than expected and slams shut with a crack. A man who sit at the desk looks up momemtarily, annoyed.

"Sorry, Mr. Franks."

The seated man looks back down at his crossword and finishes his last clue.

"Mr. Franks."

The seated, Carlton Franks, takes his time folding his newspaper and putting it aside on the corner of his desk. On his own time, when he's ready, he leans back in his chair and looks at his guest.

"I don't like being disturbed," he says, "when I'm working on my puzzles. I've killed for less."

The other man laughs uneasily. Carlton Franks is many things, but is not a comedian. He does not know how to make people laugh. What he says, he usually means. The other man thinks he is joking. He is terribly mistaken.

Case of the Mondays

I heard a stirring from the other end of the office. It sounded like a chair falling at first and I imagined Charlie Benson, who sat in that area, is quite a large man, leaning too far back and snapping the back of his new chair. But then I heard something thud. There were rolling of chair wheels, a rustling of paper, and eventually there were so many sounds at once that all I heard was a nondescript ruckus. I slid my chair towards the edge of my cubicle and stared out into the aisle like a curious groundhog. Down the row, I see other people staring out as well. Then there is a flash in front of me and I notice that it is Don from security running past me, chattering on the radio. My comrades and I emerge from our office dwellings and wander towards the source of the morning's intrigue.

As we got closer, the nose grew louder, and what we saw when we got there was a strange sight. I have never been in a fight in school. I think I might have witnessed one that one time, but it was very inconsequential. But there I was, standing in a semi-circle of similarly dressed office folk, watching two adults tussling on the ground while Don was trying to separate them.

As I had earlier guessed, one of the men was Charlie, but I doubt the sound I heard was him falling off his chair. The other guy's name was Jim I think, the mailroom guy. Jim was just as tall as Charlie, but about half his weight. It was almost comical to watch their scuffle. I am not sure any one of them landed one punch. It was more of a wrestling, tugging, pushing skirmish that spent most of its time on the ground among scattered papers and miscellaneous office supplies.

I ask around to find out if anyone knows what happened. Susan tells me that she heard from Rick who heard from Josh that Charlie had been frustrated with his computer's slow boot up time and had taken it out on his desk. He was pounding it with vigor when Jim came by and was handing Charlie his mail. Charlie's coffee cup shook from his pounding, teetered on the desk's edge, and fell, splattering Jim with coffee. One thing led to another. Jim called Charlie a degenerate desk jockey. Charlie called Jim a talentless bum.

After backup came for Don and both brawlers were sent home, we milled around to gossip before we were compelled to return to our desk by the presence of management types floating around the aisles. Back at my desk, Gloria--who was not my boss, but thought she was--came by with a stack of manilla folders that obscured half her face and asked me review them for her. I wondered whom I would have to fight to get sent home too.

Grand Theft Bicycle

A terrible crime spree is sweeping the nation. Rampant gangs of ten year old girls are amassing and stealing bikes in what many are calling the biggest crisis our nation has ever faced. We now go to our on-scene correspondent Harry Hamlin at Riverdale Elementary.

...I'm sorry. I'm told Harry has been beaten by wiffle bats and is on his way to the emergency room.

Stranded

As he got older, he saw friends' lives pass him by. They got married, had kids. One by one, he'd see them take that next step, leaving him in the dust, alone in his bachelordom. He was thirty now and he saw all the young women being swept up. All the good ones were taken, at least all the ones near his age. The good ones that were left were too young, or at least he didn't possess the self-esteem to be seen with any of them. What would people say. He was an island, while ships sailed by.

Nick

Nick is the type of friend you don't want to introduce to your parents. It's not so much that he's a person, it's just that you're embarrassed to be associated with this person. He has no sense of right and wrong, not sense of what is appropriate in polite company. Somewhere there is a men's manners and refinement class that he should be taking.

Nick is a good person, for the most part. He does have a good heart, but his sensibilities are...unbalanced. He might hug your parents when you introduce him when handshakes are good enough for normal folk. He's the only person I know that sends out an E-vite for a funeral, just for friends, not family--after all, that would be inappropriate.

All-Purpose Apple Sauce

Johnny had saved the snowball since the big winter storm, when Jessie surprised him and pelted him with the perfect snowball--a combination of a fluffy exterior and a hard slushy interior. They were friends, sure, but one good turn deserved another and Johnny set his revenge plan into motion. For months, his perfectly crafted snowball was hidden away in the freezer behind an old box of baking soda that never got replaced.

When spring time came, he was ready. Jessie wouldn't know what hit him. Johnny called his friend up and told him to wait for him at the schoolyard basketball court. In his rush to get the snowball out of the freezer, it slipped and fell onto the floor, dashing it into several pieces. There was enough of it left to constitute a snowball, but it was half its original size and nowhere near as impressive. In a quick bit of thinking, he mashed in a big glop of apple sauce, molded the concoction into an orb and put it back into the freezer. He had a couple of hours before he needed it. Hopefully it would be enough time.

At the schoolyard, with a thermos in hand, Johnny met up with Steve.

"What's up with the thermos," he said.

"Nothing. Just some hot cocoa."

"Now? You brought that here? It's almost seventy degrees out." Steve took a shot with the basketball. It clanged off the rim and he ran after the rebound.

"So?" said Johnny.

"Whatever."

As Steve turned around and trotted back, dribbling the basketball, Johnny opened the thermos, slid out the yellowish-whitish ball and hurled it at his friend. It hit him square on the forehead and knocked him to the ground. Steve touched his head and stared up , confounded and astounded.

Johnny just laughed hysterically. Revenge was a dish best served cold, sticky, and with a cinnamon scent.

Cat Skinning and Other Hobbies

(Originally published - The Short Humour Site February 2009)


Joe had spent nearly an hour digging at the dense unrelenting ground with his hoe in a futile attempt to remove the tree stump. He was drenched in sweat and tired and sore, but all he had managed to accomplish was clear the soil around the foot-wide trunk. He wiped the sweat from his brow and threw down the hoe.

"You gonna give me a hand or what?" he asked Ben, who laughed.

"Who, me? No way." He swatted away some dirt that clung to his shirt from Joe's last swing.

Joe grunted, picked up a pickax and swung it at the stump near its base. He wedged it under a large entrenched root and using a rock as leverage, tried to pry the trunk loose. But it was useless.

"Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat," he said as he threw the pickax onto the accumulated pile of useless garden tools.

"What cat?" asked Ben.

"Huh?" Joe started walking to the shed. Ben followed.

"What cat are you skinning? You making a hat? A scarf?"

"You realize you're an idiot, right?"

"Seriously, that must be one of the most nonsensical sayings around. I mean, on any given day, what person would be faced with not only the task of skinning a cat, but also the conundrum of finding alternates methods for it?"

"Mmhmm." He was used to Ben's ranting and was already rummaging through the shed for a solution to the current predicament. Meanwhile, outside on the grass, Ben continued his tirade against idioms in the English language.

"I mean, why not 'There's more than one way to murder a hobo'? Or, milk a spider monkey? Or--"

He was interrupted by the loud revving sound of the chainsaw Joe had brought out of the shed.

"You keep thinking about that while I take care of this stump."

Wannabe

"Why does he talk like that? I'm not his ese and you're not his homes. He's from Scarsdale, not the ghetto."

"Don't mind him."

"God, what an idiot. Where'd you find him? Home Depot?"

"What?"

"I figure that's where you usually find tools."

Trouble Comes A-Knocking

There is an insistent knocking at the door. She tries to ignore it, but the visitor will not leave.

"Come in," she says with a tired sigh. "The door's unlocked."

She hears the click of the door knob, but sees nothing. She is blind.

"Hello Walter."

"How did you know it was me?" he asked.

"Call it a woman's intuition. So you're still using that God-awful cologne?" She's old, tired, and even though has all the free time in the world, does not want to deal with him right now. "What do you want, Walter? I'm busy."

Walter is of timid character. It is a strange sight to see an able-bodied adult appear weak under the gaze of an old woman in a wheelchair. He stutters at first but eventually finds the words.

"Mr. Hollander sent me ma'am. He told me to tell you that he will be forced to turn your heat off," he says, preparing himself for the imminent retort.

"You tell him," she says, indignant, "that he can't do that. You tell him my son sent him a check in the mail and if he turns off my heat, I'll call the cops."

The man slinks away and shuts the door. She sits in her wheelchair, thinking that she is getting too old and too blind for this.

Silhouettes

They had us shoot at silhouette targets at basic training, paper facsimiles with point values that stood stationary while the muzzles of our standard issue rifles spit fire and sent round after round of lead into them. The skill was not difficult to learn. Quite a few of us became proficient at turning paper into pulp. They said the silhouette shape would condition our minds for combat, the theory being that it would make us less hesitant to pull the trigger in life and death circumstances--our lives, their deaths.

But as we are entrenched in this foxhole, sandbags being sacked by bullets and spewing debris, things are different. Even as our lives are in danger, there are those among us who fail to shoot back. Some pray. Some cower under the enemy's barrage. Some are frozen in fear. For the ones that do return fire, our actions lack the tenacity and certainty we had in basic training. Even in the chaos of battle, despite our conditioning, there is a subconscious part of us that knows we are taking lives. Here, the silhouettes move. And when the firefight is over, sometimes we can hear them scream.

Balancing Act

Without you, I can't seem to steady myself. When we were together, we complemented each others insecurities and weaknesses. You were my rock and I was yours. When we walked, we held hands and pressed against one another. Now that you are gone, there is no one to press against and I feel as if I am about to fall over. At the end of a hard day, there is no shoulder to lay my head on, so I wander listlessly from room to room in search of some hidden source of comfort. Strange isn't it, that I was the one that wanted you to go because I said my life was too complicated? And now that you are gone, I feel as if I've lost my identity.

Underground Performance

Her outfit was a series of contradictions. Bare white arms protuded through a orange down vest. Shoulder length dreadlocks billowed out from under a cowboy hat. A purple skirt matched purple nail polish and purple contacts. An acoustic guitar hung on a strap over her shoulder and an open coffee can was on the ground before her feet. Once in a while, a commuter would throw in some loose change or a dollar bill while they waited for the next train.

I saw her as a I clambered down the subway station steps, rushing to make the express train that had just pulled in. I couldn't hear her singing over the rush of air and the click-clacking of the train tracks but I'd like to think I would have given her something too.

Possession

Paul Little, who was neither little nor easily scared, was at that moment utterly petrified. He had been showering when the lights suddenly extinguished and it appeared. The transparent apparition hovering over his head would be invisible if not for the ripples of silver that shone intermittently on its undulating form. It stayed there above him, without menace, without benevolence. It was just there.

"Hello?" Paul said, tentative.

There was no reply.

The apparition was small compared to Paul, but it changed shape constantly. It inched closer.

"What do you want? Say something!" He grew frantic.

The shapeless entity coalesced into an orb of blinding light, swirled in a tight radius, and swooped down towards Paul's head. The orb diffused through his skin, temporarily lighting up his face as if a light bulb was lit inside his mouth. His skin turned a pale translucent pink and white light emanated from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Then it shut off like a switch and the room was shrouded in darkness.

Paul, or Paul's body rather, started to move. It stared at its own body, flexed its muscles, and took a careful first step out of the shower. It wiped the condensation from the mirror, stared at its reflection, a hand touching his face as if noticing it for the first time. Paul was still there, a soul if there's such a thing, a consciousness, though he had no control of his body. He was a spectator. As his body dried off, dressed, and walked out of his house, he tried to speak, but his lips did not move. He screamed, but there was no sound.

The Stranger With Familiar Eyes

It's been two months since you've been gone and I still see you everywhere I go. It's the eyes. When Michael opens his when I wake him for school, for a second, I think its you who is looking up sleepily at me. When I shoveled Mrs. Franks driveway last week, she invited me in for coffee and cookies. Even though her eyes were framed by a wrinkled, worn face, there was a moment when I thought you were looking at me.

At the grocery store, I was behind a woman at the register. She didn't look anything like you. She was Hispanic, was a head shorter, and not even the same color eyes. When she put the divider down on the conveyor belt after her items, she glanced back as if to say, "there you go."

She caught me staring and gave me a look. I was embarrassed.

"Sorry," I said, "you look like someone I knew."

"Oh," she said, smiled and returned her attention to the girl ringing up her receipt.

I couldn't think of anything else the whole way home. Was it you? I guess it couldn't be. Why can't I forget you?

Grim

Trainee number five fidgeted in his seat in the dark classroom. He was clothed in a flowing hooded black cloak. His scythe was propped up against his desk. He was nervous, anxious for his first assignment.

"Class," said the instructor, "yesterday we went over the issue of the introduction, how to approach the subject. Today we will talk about the passage."

Trainee number five raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"What should we do," he asked, "if the subject refuses to go."

"Not acceptable. Everyone goes. If they're on the list, they go."

The instructor spoke about the finer points of ushering the subject to the other side. At the end of the lecture, each student received a slip of paper with a name on it. He called it a training assignment--a real person, but expected to be easy.

Trainee number five looked at his piece of paper. It said, "Harry Yorn. 45 Harrington Road Rotterville, NJ. Age: 47." Should be interesting, he thought. He'd never been to New Jersey.

Life on Royalties

Sandy Richardson was a nobody five years ago. She was twenty five, worked a nine to five, bought off the rack. Then she met Ron Dooling. He charismatic, attractive, and eloquent--all the makings of the perfect cult leader. Sandy quit her job, packed a bag, and sold off the rest of her earthly possessions and joined his ranch compound in Nebraska. There, she and a hundred and twenty other other underwent what can only be described as brainwashing. Over the course of three months, the members went from a band of peace lovers in search of life's puzzle to a brigade of gun wielding anarchists yearning to tear down the status quo.

An assault led by federal agencies on the compound lasted for a week and a half. In the end, in one of the biggest negotiating failures in history, all but five members of the cult were killed. On live national television, news crews reported on-scene over the sound of emergency vehicles. Millions of American families watched as Sandy Richardson, Ron Dooling, and three other members were brought out by agents clad in body armor and bearing assault rifles.

When Ron Dooling broke from the prisoner procession, tackled a police officer, and grabbed his gun, ready to make his last stand, millions of eyes watched a female cult member, Sandy Richardson, reach for a hidden ankle holster with lightning quick reflexes, and shoot him dead. Images of Sandy's steely gaze were replicated in every news medium for the next week. Everyone wanted to know who she was and why she shot Dooling and why she wasn't frisked for weapons. Rumors circulated. Television talking heads had plenty to discuss. All the while, federal authorities refused to comment on the ongoing investigation.

A month later, a charming but weary-eyed Sandy Richardson gave her first network interview. She had been a deep undercover agent for the FBI, she said. The takedown of Dooling's group hit obvious problems that led in many lives lost and when they finally thought they had taken hold of Dooling, he broke free. She did what she had to do. Over the past month, she had been debriefed and they tied up loose ends, rounded up known associates.

Sandy became America's darling, the hero of the moment. She got a book deal in the high six figures and a movie option in the works. She quit the Bureau because she wanted to still work in deep cover, but her face was plastered everywhere, which made it near impossible to use her. It didn't matter. She was already set for life.