J
J and J went up the hill
to fetch a pail of water,
J fell down and broke his crown,
And J was the one who pushed him.
No, that won't do at all. If there is anything so hateful in the world as a poem that does not rhyme, I have yet to discover it.
Perhaps:
J and J went out one day,
to fetch a potential spy,
J was shot and J was not,
And all J said was a lie.
They used to be the closest of friends. J was a quiet type with a brilliant mind and J was an outgoing loudmouth with more muscles than firing synapses. As is rarely true, opposites attracted and the two became inseparable.
This was back in the days where The Organization was but a collection of naïve optimists, intent on saving the world. Yet as we grew and grew, betrayal and distrust slithered their way into our group. Our jealousies, annoyances, fears, the aggravating way that some of us click our pens when thinking. They all rotted our Organization to the very core.
J claimed not to know what had become of her partner. She had returned from their mission, covered in leaves, dirt, and spaghetti Bolognese. She told a fantastical tale of combat, running through the woods, and enraged Italian chefs.
I was not fooled. Apparently unsatisfied with simple murder, J had also added theft to her roster of crimes. On her left hand she wore J's prized ring. Though this was the only evidence telling me that J had committed the crime, it was enough to prove her guilt. The ring was J's most valuable treasure, which he toted around in a small, elegant box for months before his death. He would not even speak of its origins nor wear it - becoming flustered when I brought up the subject.
He had said that he was saving the ring for the right time. How ironic that it is his murderer who wears it now. J seemed distraught by J's disappearance. Perhaps it was an act, or perhaps she was feeling the guilt of her crime and had a hard time playing Atlas to the weight of it.
So, J, if you are reading this, I am so incredibly sorry. You never deserved this. Also, I am very shocked that you turned out to be alive.
If it is you, J, who is reading this, I am appalled and disgusted by your actions, you murderous traitor. Not only did you betray someone who loved you so dearly but you also flaunt the ring you stole from him.
Is this enough yet, fellow agents? Or will I have to keep proving, again and again, how corrupt our organization has become?
Why was Q's death not enough for you to see it?
In other news, Q's funeral was today. I arrived in disguise, having stolen the work-clothes of Yorick, the poor grave-digger. Alas, I shall return his outfit as soon as I can have it dry-cleaned of all evidence.
I stood on the edge of the gathering, the fog making spectres of us all. They lowered her coffin into the earth and each attendee threw a handful of dirt on top. It was a final goodbye, but to me it seemed dismissive. Every loved one burying Q just a little deeper into the dirt.
After everyone had left, I finally approached her gravestone. The name on it was not one that I recognized, but I expected nothing less from Q. I set down the bouquet of tulips that I had been (quite uncomfortably) hiding in my overalls. Against the cold grey of the headstone, they seemed audaciously bright. Yellow was too strong of an emotion for this solemn place.
For a moment, I stood and stared down, whispering to the place six feet below my Wellingtons (and eleven feet and two inches below my head):
"What secrets did you have? Why were you so unjustly sporked?"
She did not answer.
- A.M. Ham
