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J. Joseph

Misdirecting the Truth


Everyone always asks me the same couple of questions: Why are you here, and what do you want? If you get to the root of the matter, they mean the same thing. At least to the person asking the question. The asker doesn’t give a shit about my feelings or my history or anything like that. When someone asks me why I’m here, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they really mean, what the fuck do you want, freak? Just put into polite words. For some reason, the people who mask their intentions and feelings in politeness always seem to have darker intentions and feelings than those who lay them out in the open.

“Why are you here?” she asked me. The hatred in her eyes was evident. I should’ve known better than to challenge her. She was in the Underground. I wasn’t.

Instead of answering her, I shrugged. “Why are you talking to me?” I asked coyly. ‘You’re an idiot, Simon,’ I thought to myself, ‘a goddamned idiot.’ I couldn’t help it sometimes. Being an idiot can be fun.

“Because I’ve never seen you before. New players are in town, and a mysterious figure presents himself in the circle? Color me intrigued.”

My mind whirred to life. ‘She knows too much,’ my thoughts told me. ‘No, she knows nothing. She just suspects,’ my logic struck back at my fear. ‘But she isn’t a cop, she’s a member of the underground, she doesn’t need anything other than suspicion to act.’ I realized I’d been staring directly into her eyes for slightly too long to be normal. Without changing my expression from the blank stare of creepiness, I said mysteriously, “I’m not mysterious.” ‘Sure,’ my mind joked to itself, ‘that was believable.’

“Then why not tell me why you’re here?” she asked. A reasonable sounding question. Of course, it was supposed to sound reasonable. It rarely was.

My mouth smiled, but my eyes remained in their blank stare, the look that pierced the soul. “Because that isn’t what you’re asking,” I said. ‘Please be right, please be right.’

She laughed. “No, it isn’t,” she said. “What do you think I’m asking, I wonder.”

‘Idle musing, I suppose. Am I supposed to answer?’ I wondered to myself. Then looking in her eyes, I saw expectation. ‘She wants me to answer. Should I? or should I just leave her hanging?’ I answered that question as soon as I asked it. ‘Don’t piss off the evil lady who could have you killed in your sleep, Simon. Not yet, at least,’ I told myself. ‘But do I tell the truth?’ I mused mentally. ‘No,’ the answer was immediate, and powerful, then softer, ‘but a kinder version of it, perhaps?’ I cleared my throat and answered her, “You’re asking me what I want, using more, let’s call it polite, language.” I let my false smile fall away as I spoke those final words. ‘A compromise,’ I figured, ‘not the truth, but not a lie.’

“Not the truth, but not lying either. You’re good,” she answered me. ‘Can you read my mind?’ I thought, ‘No, you just know people.’ She had continued to talk while I was musing to myself, “-nant with. I could make your life a living hell. Now, what do you want?”

I cocked my head. ‘She probably said something about not doing that not-really-lying thing anymore,’ I thought, trying to piece together the context clues. ‘But you can’t tell her the truth, Simon,’ I scolded myself, ‘After all, do you think she’d be nice to you after you tell her that you’re here to kill her?’ ‘No,’ I answered my own rhetorical question, ‘even she isn’t that crazy.’ “I’m here,” I began, then sighed, “If we get to the root of things, I’m here to find my place in the world.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” she asked.

‘By killing you and taking your position.’ “I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie,” she shot back.

“That is a lie,” I replied.

“Why would you lie?” she mused, “Unless… Are you here to kill me?”

‘Yes.’ “Why would I be here to kill you?” I asked.

“Because most of the weird strangers we get are,” she answered.

‘Because I’ve sent half of them.’ “Are you calling me weird?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “Are you here to kill me?”

‘Yes.’ “But, why would someone want to kill you?” I pressed again.

“You’re avoiding the question,” she answered, “That makes me think you’re here to kill me.”

‘I’m avoiding the question because the answer will get us nowhere.’ “You’re avoiding the question as much as I. Makes me think killing you would be useful to just about anybody.”

“Why are you avoiding my question?” she asked.

‘Because the answer is yes.’ “Because you’ve already made up your mind, so my answer is pointless. Why are you avoiding the question?”

“Because you’ve already done your research, so confirming things is pointless,” she said.

‘She’s lying,’ I thought, ‘she knows more than she’s letting on.’ I bit my tongue as I thought about it, ‘Why else would she deflect from everything?’ I answered my own question, ‘Because she wants this conversation to continue as much as I do.’ “You’re lying to me,” I said aloud this time, “I wonder why you’d lie?”

“Probably the same reason you’re lying to me,” she said.

I held up my hands. “Everything I’ve said today is true, save the lie I admitted.”

She smiled a sinister grin. “And yet, you’ve lied plenty.”

‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘where would the fun be in telling the truth?’ “How is that possible, though? Are truth and lies not one another’s opposites?” I gave her another of my false smiles. ‘Toying with words and people is fun,’ I mused as she began to answer.

“They are,” She said slowly, “Perhaps I shouldn’t say you’ve lied. Perhaps misdirected the truth would be more accurate.”

‘Clever, but not clever enough,’ I thought. “How so?” I asked. ‘Let’s see how she responds to that,’ I mused, staring into her eyes.

“You told just enough of the truth to make people believe a lie,” she replied, “It’s really quite clever.”

‘I know,’ I thought, pride welling up inside. I pushed it down. ‘No,’ I told my emotions, ‘She can’t know she’s right.’ I forced out a shrug. “That’s creepily manipulative,” I replied to her.

“It is,” she said. She was staring into my eyes, as though trying to peer into my soul.

‘She must have a really high opinion of my abilities,’ I mused. “You really must have a low opinion of me, thinking I’m capable of such base actions,” I said aloud.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” she said to me, then a smirk grew across her face, “Though I suspect you knew that.”

‘Of course,’ my mind reacted, ‘I’m not an idiot.’ I pressed the impulse down. “If I knew that already,” I began slowly, “Why would I state the opposite?”

“Because you want me to underestimate you. Because you’re here to kill me,” she stated that as though it were nothing. No fear, no excitement. Just boredom.

‘Yes, but why does the concept of being killed bore her?’ I asked myself, ‘Why not ask?’ Then, I asked her, “Why does the idea of someone trying to kill you bore you so much?”

“Because it’s common. Boring.”

‘She’s right,’ I thought to myself, ‘It’s kinda basic.’ ‘Shut it,’ I thought back, ‘We need her gone if we’re going to take over.’ ‘Then you best get on with it, Simon.’ I groaned. “I wish I lived the kind of life where someone trying to kill me was boring.”

“That’s probably why you want to kill me,” she replied.

‘She’s good. She’s got you down to a T.’ “Now you’re being ridiculous. How would killing you make my life any more exciting?”

She smiled. ‘You’re screwed.’ “Because you want to become me. And once you’re at the top, you think your life will be exciting.”

‘Close enough. Kill her, before she sics someone or something on you,’ I thought. ‘No,’ I pushed back, ‘She’s still intrigued, not angry, not emotional. I cannot afford to be emotional.’ ‘You’re always emotional.’ ‘Not until I’m certain it’s the right play.’ After the brief mental debate, I said, “So that’s why you think people want to kill you. Because you’re at the top of something. What?”

“What do you mean what?” she asked.

“What are you in charge of?” I asked again.

“We both know that you know, so stop acting like a fool.”

‘I know. But acting like a fool is fun,’ I thought. “I don’t know. According to you, you’re super important, I not only know that, but know that you know I know, and yet I still want to kill you despite knowing you know that I want to. Sound’s like a pretty foolish guy to me.”

“That’s an excessively complicated way to say you’re an idiot,” she joked.

‘That’s the point,’ I thought. “I never said I was. I said the person you’re describing is.”

“And I’m describing you,” she replied.

‘Close, but not quite,’ I thought. “Not really accurately, but I’ll give you an A for creativity.”

“Why do I not believe you?” she asked me.

‘Because you are naturally suspicious and likely have been betrayed. Also, you aren’t a complete moron.’ “Because you’re paranoid.”

She smiled. “It’s only paranoia if everyone isn’t out to get you,” she said.

I smiled. “Try telling a psychologist that,” I joked.

She chuckled. “They aren’t always the best authority on that,” she said.

I frowned, furrowing my brow. “That’s literally their job, to analyze stuff like that,” I remarked, “In fact, I’m pretty sure that a group of them define paranoia on an infrequent basis.” ‘Quiet, Simon,’ I told myself, ‘You’re pressing an issue that isn’t important.’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘It humanizes me. Also, if she doesn’t understand basic-’ I cut my own thought off. ‘Too emotional,’ I scolded myself.

She’d been replying to me as I thought. I barely caught the end of the reply. “-agnoses are flawed, no?”

“Perhaps,” I said, hedging my bets. ‘Why is she arguing diagnoses are flawed?’ I asked myself. “But,” I began slowly as I put together the pieces. ‘Flawed Information,’ I thought to myself quickly, ‘For some reason.’ “Even if they don’t have or know everything accurately, their beliefs are legally final, are they not?”

“I suppose they are,” she said, “But is what is true legally or officially the truth then?”

‘Depends on whether it agrees with me,’ I thought. “Are you saying it isn’t a legitimate way of viewing things?”

“I’m just saying,” she began slowly, “That sometimes it isn’t the right way to view things. And given what you’re here to do, I’d say you agree.”

‘I do.’ “Sometimes,” I said, a smile growing on my face. She turned to face the bar, pouring herself a drink.

She pointed at my chest as I spoke. “Before you go doing anything rash while I’m buys,” she said, “Consider your options.”

I looked down at my chest. A red dot was there. Resting perfectly on my lapel pin. ‘I win,’ I thought. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your fake confusion is cute,” she said to me as she took a drink from her glass, “You’re also pretty smart, and not bad at the whole spy thing. How would you like a job?”

I let the confusion fall from my face, replaced with smug satisfaction. “That’s why I’m here. Of course, I want a job.” ‘Yours.’ I thought.

She looked up at my smugness, confusion spreading onto her face. “I thought you were here to kill me. Now, you’re in a jam and you still lie?”

“I said the truth. You’re just not listening,” I scolded her. I nodded. Across the street, there was a flash of light as the sniper fired. The shot pierced her heart, the bullet lodging in the bar. I knelt beside her. “You made one fatal error,” I whispered to her as she died, “You thought you were smarter than me. You underestimated me. You thought I didn’t know how you operate. You were right all along. I did my research.”

“You’ll never be me,” she whispered with her last dying breath.

I laughed. “Of course not,” I said aloud, “I’m going to be better.” Giving my sniper a smile and a nod, I poured myself a drink from the bar and called my cleaners. ‘Four hours ‘til opening, Simon,’ I told myself, ‘You ready?’

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