The Deconstructionist Assassins Guild by Sherry Mooney

While the arbitrary nature of language has gotten many a trainee into trouble, Derby never had this problem. While (in a slightly different sense) his peers were baffled at having the same word mean both near and shut, he was stunning veterans with the unthinkable sub-texts he was discovering. He felt the jealousy of the other trainees and he scorned them – not for their lack of knowledge but for their belief in his abilities. Because Derby had a secret, one that could prove ruinous to his future as an assassin: He could not define Deconstruction.

Originally, Derby expected some sort of lecture on the topic, or even that some other trainee would ask for the all-important definition. Instead, he learned how to apply Deconstruction, to find meaning in beyond the obvious and to use that application to further his skills as a bringer of death. Case by case, he pieced together the methods of his predecessors. One assassin had a research librarian for a target, one who happened to be writing a paper on Margaret Fuller. This assassin recalled that a library is a storehouse for books. Books are a storehouse for knowledge. And Margaret Fuller once said, “If you have knowledge, let others light their candles at it.” It took the firemen 6 hours to put out the blaze.

With every death he studied, Derby’s confusion only grew. He understood each step the assassins made; in class, he was able brilliantly to reproduce even the most careful and tortuous deconstruction. Rather than gaining confidence at his skill, Derby grew cagey and defensive, waiting for the excellence he had achieved to be unraveled by a word he couldn’t define.

And then came the day when Senior called him in for a talk. Literally, rather than figuratively ‘in’ in this case, Derby thought as he entered Senior’s office.

“I believe you are well suited to this case,” his superior stated, sliding a folder across the desk, skipping completely any words of congratulation or even acknowledgement that he had completed his training. “The-”

Someone rapped smartly on the door and then entered without waiting to be invited. Senior looked up with polite reproof at the stern-faced police officer. “May I help you?”

The words were halfhearted at best. “We have reason to believe your guild is responsible for a murder.”

“Ah, I see,” Senior began and Derby settled in to watch the metaphorical fireworks. “Are you here in congratulation, commiseration, or condemnation? Or perhaps, something else entirely?” Senior looked briefly interested, but resumed his tired, formal expression after the officer’s curt wave. “I’m here to catch the killer.” And then, sardonically, “Anybody around here kill anybody lately?”

“We would be pretty poor assassins if we hadn’t. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to go into greater detail. Killer-client privilege, you know.”

The calm reply seemed only to anger the officer. “What I want to know,” he said, emotion finally entering his tone. “is who took Brian Kretch apart piece by piece. Who ripped his limbs off and left him to die slowly. You wouldn’t happen to have any insight, would you?”

“Ah.” Senior spoke almost to himself. “Yes. Common misconception. It’s the Destructionist Assassins you’re looking for.”

“The…what?”

“Destructionist Assassins. Over on Maple Street. Completely understandable error. Matter of method, really. That and, I flatter myself, we are a great deal more subtle.”

“But…well…I’m still going to need to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, of course. Unfortunately, I am not willing to answer anything further without the presence of my legal representative. Or at the very least, my college English professor. Seeing as both of them are absent at this time, might we schedule an appointment?” The other man looked stunned. “Yes, I really think that would be best. If you would like to see yourself out, my secretary can see that you are set up with an acceptable time.”

After several indignant wells and a slammed door, the officer departed and Derby was left wondering at such a lack of brilliance in a man who knocked as he did.

And then Senior was one again addressing him and Derby remembered his own lacking knowledge. “You needn’t actually have stayed,” the Guildmaster informed him. “As often as we interact with the police, however, I thought it might be constructive for you to be witness to all the usual nonsense and hoop jumping required. That aside, this is your first assignment, so everything you should need will be in the file. That may not always be the case, depending on how much is known about a given case. For now, you should be just fine.”

Summoning all the composure he could, Derby decided it was time. Rather than ruining an important case and the guild’s reputation, he had to admit to his complete and utterly specific ignorance.

“Sir,” he said, his stuttering voice betraying him. “Deconstruction –”

“Is just a word.” Senior cut him off. “A word and a tool like any other. Besides,” the older man added with a smile. “It isn’t a difficult case.” Derby blinked and nodded and left to prepare for his first kill.

Inside the folder were two sheets of paper, one a crisp white computer printout and the other a photocopy of a page from a cookbook. The printout read:

Mr. Robert Stevenson

703 Vineland Trail

Garden Party 4pm

Memorizing his target and his opportunity, Derby examined the second page to discover his means. It was page 974 from The Joy of Cooking, with the article entitled “To Decorate a Cake with Fresh Flowers.” He stifled his initial confusion, wondering what was expected of him. “Deconstruction is just a word.” Just a word. He liked words. They were familiar and playful. He could make them mean whatever he wanted them to mean. And maybe that was the point. Even Deconstruction was what he wanted it to be. He could take this recipe and do whatever he liked. So he did.

He read about sinking florists vials into the cake to hold water and flowers. He read about the plants the book cautioned to avoid, for fear of poisoning guests. He delved into phrases like “pinch off,” “sunk,” and “bruised” and realized what even the authors of the cookbook had not. This was a recipe for a poison cake, perfect for an afternoon garden party. Reminding himself that the cake “should be as fresh-looking as possible,” as per the orders of the recipe (and so no one would get suspicious), Derby set to work with a will. He found some lilies of the valley that were just blooming, and placed them in a vase on the windowsill while he beat eggs, sugar, and flour together. Derby was content.

He stood under a black umbrella, a shrouded figure pondering a less figuratively shrouded figure. He considered the mourners, the haze of rain, even himself.

A funeral has a language all its own, he thought. But a funeral does not define death. He glanced again at the casket. I do.