An Ambrosial Bond

Ron Koppelberger

An Ambrosial Bond

The events were told by the actions of the followers, by the mass, the group of so-called ordinary folk. The leaflets were etched in gold frameworks of ink and proclamation, “DESOLATIONS ARRAY, BY THE SUN AND THE DARK, DAYS OF REVOLUTION…”. Theodore read the pamphlet as the throng of devoted followers swayed and rolled toward the stage.
“Join the cause, come to glory and respite!” he read. Ink stained his fingers indigo as he crumpled the paper announcement. The man on stage paced back and forth, yelled and raised his hands in fervor.
“We’ll take it all! All of it my friends, from Los Angeles to New York city, all of it!” he screamed. Theodore fingered the 44. Mag in his waistband. Sure, cool heavy and ready to wash the fray.
Just for a breath, a moment of pause between the stage and the crowd, he sighed , “Simple and sure. “ he whispered. Reconciling himself to the act, the assassins credo , he prepared to change history. The crowd surged and hummed and the echo of a raging devotion and naive acceptance embraced the performer, the rouse, the false front.
Theodore gently removed the weapon from his waistband and inaudibly the safety clicked off. Somewhere to his left a woman moved closer. The gun was cool and ready, by the desire for action, hands clasped, just a pull he thought. As he prepared to change history he inhaled holding his breath and ready to squeeze the trigger.
A sweet aroma assailed his senses, overwhelming him, in hold, in refrain, sweet, ambrosial, healing in sustenance and wont. She moved closer. Amazing, warm and perfumed, by grace and tide, “Simply amazing!” he whispered as his hand fell to his side. She was next to him now. “Sweet scents!” he said in a trancelike state. The misty scent of her perfume clouded his mind and he dreamed, dreamed of passionate embraces and wild eyed romance, he dreamed and inhaled as she took the gun and quietly, without hesitation or sentimentality raised it to his temple.
Sweet mists and wandering love, perfumed in tendriled webs of silk, perfumed spider-sure and sated by the blood of surrender, sweet surrender. No one seemed to notice as she pulled the trigger. The crowd surged swallowing the resistance of fated fortune and drama, the whole drama borne of monsters and saints.