The Very Best Cold Dish

Henry Jenkins had a bit of built up tension in his life. His masseuse noticed it and commented that he needed to find a way to relax, and she suggested meditation and spiritual pursuits she found personally helpful. He grunted noncommittally and she sighed and got back to work on the deep tissues, wondering why she even bothered with her wealthier clients. It’s not like anyone with that much money had any interest in spirituality.

Of course, she was wrong. Henry Jenkins had spent a much higher percentage of his lifetime studying and applying spiritual teachings from around the world than she could in twenty years, even if she became a cloistered nun tomorrow. His material success was due to the practical application of several simple spiritual principles, in fact. “Leveraging relationships in high places,” he liked to call it when he was in good company.

Of course, for most of his life, being in “good company” meant being very nearly completely alone.  It was a regrettable state of affairs Henry Jenkins had spent years trying to correct. At last his plans were nearing fruition, and he could finally begin raising the spiritual awareness of most of the population on Earth simultaneously, bringing them closer to Enlightenment as a whole, and kicking off a golden age of  wisdom, beauty and peace that hadn’t been seen since the days of Atlantis. If he remembered right.

Just as soon as he killed the last three assholes on his list.

Gregory Hills. Gregory was a pastor’s son who had once given Henry very bad advice. Alcohol and prescription drugs were involved, and the near complete annihilation of a complete spiritual ecosystem. Women and children had been deeply scarred from that experience, and it had taken Henry years to treat and heal those scars Gregory had left. Gregory must die.

Travis Thompson. Travis was a gifted and talented young man with a bright and shining future ahead of him. He was in the Future Business Leaders of America, Advanced Placement courses in English, Math, and Science. In the 9th grade, he could solve complicated calculus equations simply by looking at them, though he had not yet figured out how to show the work explaining his solutions with those who couldn’t keep up. He even excelled in art, with a gallery in the nicer side of town already having sold a piece of his work when he was still 15. Then his parents divorced, and things … changed. By his senior year, he was on his last strike before being permanently expelled. He was well known as a drug dealer, and he regularly beat up other students, and stole almost everything that wasn’t nailed down. He had threatened to stab a teacher, and one day had the bad judgment to hold a drill with a large bit to the arm of Henry Jenkins in a Technical Theater class. Henry had seen the drill was unplugged and had registered no fear as he gazed into Travis’ eyes without flinching, and Travis, still slightly in multiple realms from a recent mushroom excursion, caught a glimpse of something truly vast in the depths of Henry’s soul. Letting him go, he said, “You’re psychotic” with a touch of awe in his voice. Yes, Travis Thompson had seen too much. Travis also must die.

Theresa Von Shwaartzenhymen. Theresa was a blond lady driving a small red car who made the poor choice of cutting off Henry Jenkins in traffic, and then flipping him the bird. Perhaps the biggest obstacle to his plans for global enlightenment, Henry didn’t even know her real name, and strongly suspected he had forgotten the make and model of the car entirely. He had several spiritual agencies searching for her, but to date had come up with nothing solid.

Perhaps it was latent frustration over this seemingly insurmountable obstacle his masseuse was feeling in his shoulders. He promised himself not to fall into the trap of forgetting who he was and why he was here, and he felt the deep tensions begin to break up and disappear. When he left, he gave the masseuse a large tip, and wrote, “Samsara: Profitable in proper proportions.” on the back of her invoice. The obscure cuneiform script he chose made her curious in passing, but thoughts of any hidden meaning were pushed aside when her next customer came in, still sweating from a long day at Wimbledon.

"Still not ready to retire yet, Mr. Agassi?" she asked with a smile. "Let's see what we can do for you before you get too stiff."