Tales of Two Graves(Martha Huett) Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. - Confucius, ancient Chinese philosopher

I really should have been paying more attention back in 520BC when my neighbor Confucius warned us all about getting revenge.

Why oh why didn't I listen? Or, at least, take heed?

White-hot boiling jealousy, that's why.

My prissy cousin had sinned against me by kissing my beloved at our betrothal celebration - with arms entwined and bodies pressed tightly. I had witnessed the betrayal. It pierced my soul.

And then, that very night, I bloodied my thumb by testing a rather menacing bronze dagger before I crept into my cousin's sleeping quarters to slit her throat. A lowly servant was later charged for my crime of murder and was unjustly put to death without ceremony.

I was subsequently stricken with a diabolical fever from thumb-testing the sharp but dirty dagger and succumbed quickly to a lethal sepsis. My infection-ravaged body was laid to rest by my suspecting new husband who had been too filled with fear of my vengeance to even touch me once in our brief days-long marriage.

And now here I am: living in Purgatory, hellish and on-going, where I am forced to watch every damn revenge scenario on Earth unfold until I learn my lesson and can ascend into Heaven.

After over a hundred centuries in Purgatory, I have witnessed thousands upon thousands of innocent (and guilty) human lives destroyed by our most base and self-destructive desire: revenge. It's tiring to me but I'd bet my neighbor Confucius would have been pretty smug if he were here to witness his wise warning in figurative action.

In Purgatory, my minders see my every action and know my very thoughts. They think they're so great. Always shoving revenge scenes and stories in front of you and then reading your emotions and thought patterns. That's how they catch you in lies about how you've changed from revenge-seeker to forgiver.

And when I say you, I mean me. I've been here longer than anybody, and I still hate that dumb bitch who sinfully coveted my husband. And my minders know it. That's why I'm the one who has to watch the most compelling, often gruesome stories of revenge; those occurring since time immemorial and from a future yet unfolded.

Date: Cenozoic Era (2.5 mya)
Place: somewhere in Africa
Sin: 'Thou shalt not steal'

Language among hominids was little more than grunts and snorts two and a half million years ago. Our earliest human relatives relied more on instinct, body language and eye contact to communicate with each other. There was simply no way to intellectually and philosophically express the simple hominid rule of no stealing. Thieving just wasn't done and if it was, well, there would be a variety of consequences, all of which would be the choice of the theft victim.

In this prehistoric case of revenge gone wrong, Grunt (for lack of a better name) was the theft victim. He was a hulking young male, hirsute and strong, but with a soft spot for his favorite mate, within whom a fetal hominid grew.

The upcoming birth would be his fourth, yet Grunt had no children. Each of the three previous baby hominids had been borne perfectly intact and healthy. But, in his fear and ignorance, Grunt had insisted on pulling the umbilical cords from their tiny bodies. He thought the cord was some kind of worm or serpent growing from them. The poor hominid babes had bled to death in their stricken mom's arms.

This birth would be different: Grunt had a plan. No more pulling to rid babies of the creatures growing from their navels. This time, he would simply sever the umbilical cord with his prized obsidian knife. Grunt had sharpened and honed the tool for just for this occasion. His mate, now heavily encumbered with child, agreed tiredly, though she really had no say, of course.

Suddenly, a single selfish hominid act challenged the fate of Grunt's baby and the future of hominid, and later human, maternal and newborn health.

Another bulky male hominid, referred to as Snort (again, for lack of a better name), stole Grunt's lovingly crafted obsidian knife while he slept during the earliest hours of his mate's painful labor. Grunt had wanted to be rested for the delivery.

When Grunt woke, the shiny black knife was gone!

Grunt was overwhelmed with rage and a killing need for revenge. And Snort was his target; no other hominid had expressed any interest or admiration for Grunt's obsidian knife.

Only vengeful thoughts filled his hominid mind and heart. Gone, especially, was any concern for his favorite mate and their nearly-borne child. His knife and his pre-historic pride were tantamount to all else.

With unintelligible utterances, the laboring mom begged Grunt to stay with her, that they could figure out another way to cut the umbilical cord. Naturally, his answer was no and he stomped out of their cave toward the road to revenge.

The fight between Grunt and Snort was quick and dually lethal. Grunt crashed through Snort's cave in frontal rush as he squatted in front of a cooking fire, quartering a small mammal. Snort had evidently butchered other creatures with the obsidian knife recently; the ground was struggling to soak up a thick sheen of blood. Wielding a stout club over his head, Grunt put all his power into the downward momentum of his swing and squashed Snort's crown. Snort's body fell backward and, knowing death was coming for him, his hand stiffened tightly around Grunt's knife. Grunt lunged for his knife and slipped only slightly on the slick, bloodied ground. The movement was enough for Snort to plunge Grunt's obsidian knife deep into his groin. Grunt's femoral artery was severed along the way and he bled out on the floor of Snort's cave; hominid and other prehistoric mammalian blood co-mingling. It was the first shanking in the history of the world.

In the meantime, back in Grunt's cave, a beautiful hominid babe was born. His loving and exhausted mother did what she should have done after her previous births: she lifted the umbilical cord to her lips and bit it clean through. With a quick flick of her thick fingers, she tied the cord, then lifted her baby to her breast.

Date: Friday, October 31, 2234
Place: off-planet
Sin: 'Thou shalt not bear false witness'

Halloween Night usually marked the most profitable time of the year for designer/coder, Truffle Tricks. This year was an anomaly. His richest clients had expectations of him that he simply couldn't keep. At least, on his own.

Though Truffle Tricks was renowned in the off-world for his original and elaborate 3D-printed full-body, living tissue Halloween costumes, he had bitten off more than he could chew. Sure he could design all sorts of masquerading outfits, then write the code for it to be printed into a breathable, living 3D costume of anything you can imagine - a dinosaur, a witch, a clown, anything. But he was no anthropologist nor historian. How in the stars did his clients think he could design and code costumes for a historical dictator-themed Halloween party? Truffle Tricks didn't even know who or what some guy named Attila the Hun did back in the 5th century. Or Genghis Khan in the 13th century. Or the 20th century's Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, Mao Zedong or Idi Amin. Not even Vladimir Putin or Bashir al-Assad of the 21st century. Truffle just wasn't into history. He was into high-tech fashion, dammit! Couldn't his clients see that?

Nevertheless, Truffle, due to his profligate lifestyle and partying ways, had a desperate need for cash and readily accepted the contract, promising to have all the above-mentioned dictator costumes ready by Halloween. And he did. But at a sinful cost.

Back on Earth, Truffle's most competitive rival, Hans V, was angrily aware that counterfeit productions of his work were being printed off-planet. And he knew precisely who the culprit was: the lazy and jealous Truffle Tricks.

Several years back, Hans V had been at the absolute pinnacle of his career when he'd successfully outfitted the entire party at the World Leaders Halloween Ball. Thousands of astonishing costumes had been designed, coded and 3D printed for the world's luminaries and their guests. It was the ball of all Halloween balls. Headlines raced around the world about Hans V's fashion genius while poor Truffle raced off-planet to escape trespassing and counterfeiting charges after he was caught duplicating Hans V's code for an Elon Musk costume and sneaking into the World Leaders Halloween Ball.

Hans V was not to be usurped this time, however. He would get his just revenge against Truffle Tricks once and for all...

Let's break off here and step back into the 21st century to see just how the trip down the road to revenge can weave itself into a truism.

It's the early 2020s and the middle of Vladimir Putin's Russian war on Ukraine. President Zelensky and his fellow Ukrainians are courageously fighting against slaughter and destruction. Fighting for their country and their lives.

It's also the dawn of time travel technology.the sensitive, multinational development is kept top secret globally. Only a very few in government and science know that it is being deployed for the very first time with a human subject who accepts his assignment happily, almost greedily...

Off-planet, Truffle Tricks was giddy with praise throughout the highly anticipated historical dictator Halloween party. His counterfeit costumes, all Hans V designs, were thought to be Truffle originals, and were a huge hit. He even had the gall to put a Truffle Tricks label on the back of the right hand so that when the "dictators" shook hands in that ancient human greeting, they could see his wonderful handiwork.

The costumes that Truffle created for the Halloween party were supposed to be one-of-a-kind, so you can imagine his surprise and dismay when another guest showed up late dressed exactly as Truffle - in a Vladimir Putin outfit.

Things then happened so fast that Hans V's plans for revenge were thwarted before he even had a chance to give them a second thought.

Hans V was, of course, the other Putin. He was certain that when he outted Truffle Tricks for fraud in front of all his clients at the party, Truffle would just slink away in abject humiliation and never threaten the Hans V brand with his fake costumes ever again.

But, no.

Revenge had its own plans...

Soldat (soldier) Konstaintyn Oleschuk, an intrepid recruit enlisted in the Ukrainian special forces, disembarks from a gel-like time tube and heads toward a gathering that he believes is attended by the worst living monster of his lifetime. His time-travelling military mission - assassinate Vladimir Putin before he invades Ukraine.

Soldat Oleschuk easily blends into the gathering, what with his fatigues, helmet and AK-74 assault rifle. Just another ground-fighting dictator. He sees the first Putin who approaches him somewhat warily and extends his right hand with a questioning look on his face. Soldat Oleschuk sees a curious-looking label on the back of Putin's hand, takes it anyway, pulls Truffle/Putin close and presses several rounds into his chest.

Truffle/Putin falls to the ground. His costume dissolves, and Truffle lies bleeding and dying.

Soldat Oleschuk whirls around, searching the stricken crowd. That's when he realizes an error has been made in the calibrations of his time travel. The soldat is an educated young man. He knows Genghis Khan could not possibly exist in the same time as al-Assad or Amin or any of the others. Something is wrong.

Then, he spots the second Putin who is trembling in a corner. Soldat Oleschuk zeroes in on the back of Putin's hand, sees no label, lifts his AK-74 and blows the life out of Hans V. The brave soldat is out the door and in the time tube before Hans V's Putin costume fully dissolves.

Time: 2015AD - 2025AD
Place: New York, New York
Sin: 'Thou shalt not covet'

One lovely morning, birds were singing their poetry on the fresh spring morning that saw the body of a dearly departed husband lowered into his earthly grave. His bereaved widow, tear-streaked and trembling, sat whimpering in her ultra-deluxe wheelchair. In spite of her multi-million dollar wealth and its accompanying benefits, she was unable to confront the world without her precious 'Georgie Pie'. He had been the man who, for 37 years, had filled her heart with love, had tenderly bathed and dressed her, had made her laugh girlishly as he pushed her playfully through Central Park. George Piedmont had been Clara Piedmont's world.

"I will love you forever and ever," she had promised him on that birdsong-filled morning when flowers were placed upon George's coffin. The minister said more words then that Clara really didn't hear, but when the respectful crowd of mourners closed their prayer, she joined them, her head bowed, her lap drinking up her tears. "Forever", she whispered again.

Forever, at least, in Clara's forsaken love, was not to be.

George had never, ever in a million years thought he would drop dead of something as bourgeois as a heart attack. Perhaps, a skydiving accident or a yacht sinking might lead to his demise. Something, anything that was his choice or under his control. But a myocardial infarction on the commode? Preposterous! And embarrassingly cliché.

Alas, if George could have seen what was coming, he would not have been using his secret cell phone to communicate with his longtime paramour about ending his invalid wife's life. When his heart had seized violently and life had slipped permanently from his remarkably buff and pampered 57-year-old body, George Piedmont's cell phone had slipped from his lifeless hands onto the soft tiles of the bathroom floor. The phone sat overturned and ignored as the EMTs removed his body, but it eventually wound up, and remained many years later, in the hands of George's now scorned and vengeful widow, Clara.

"That stinking sack of garbage," Clara muttered breathlessly during a punishing workout in her home gym with her twenty-something boxing instructor. She was still gorged on the revenge her heart had been feeding her for years now, and the younger man believed every punch and expletive was aimed at the memory of an older man who broke his 67-year-old student's heart. He was wrong. The vengeance driving Clara was almost fully directed toward George's longtime mistress, Chloé.

The evidence provided by George's little secret phone with the James Bond ring tone was the gift that kept on giving Clara's hateful vengeance a prolonged and energizing boost against Chloé. After all, Chloé was the living mastermind behind Clara's decades-long debilitation and wheelchair confinement. She was the one who, as a pharmaceuticals researcher, engineered the muscle-wasting potion that could evade detection and slowly render its victim too weak to even stand. Clara found out about it from George's phone, of course, during an old, but particularly self-celebratory text session fondly reminiscing how he and Chloé hatched the plan before Clara even married him.

"Bitch," Clara hissed into a brutal punch at the bag held by her personal trainer. The realization that she had always been a mark, even as a 20-year-old bride, innovated her tactical thought processes of revenge. She had a plan. And it wasn't going to be pretty.

"Chloé darling!" Clara gushed with feigned affection into her phone when her new 'friend' answered. Both women were 67, but had the social tendencies of much younger women in spite of the heartbreak they both still carried for the same man who died while defecating many years ago. Clara had spent the last decade rehabilitating and strengthening her spirit and body through revenge-doping workouts, marathon sessions with her therapist and grueling hours of glamorous fundraising for various social charities. Chloé had managed the tears and emotional loss of her fellow con artist and lover through travel, tea parties and ballroom dancing - all on Clara's dime, of course, since Chloé saved much of what she and George had bilked throughout Clara's marriage to him.

Chloé may have once been beautiful, smart, conniving and ruthless, certainly enough to attract George's eye, but the years and heartbreak have coarsened her looks, dampened her intelligence and softened, just slightly, her drive. She had no idea, none, that Clara knew precisely who she is and what she had done to her for 37 years. So, she responded with excited, tumbling words, "Clara! I am so glad you called! What a coincidence that two New York widows would meet on such a small and exclusive cruise. We must get together! Can we meet for lunch soon?" The real thought in Chloé's conniving mind didn’t come on as strongly as it had when she was young and in love, but it still came, 'Maybe I could wiggle my way into her will.'

"We most certainly will meet for lunch, love! I'm free tomorrow. You?" Clara says, laughing silently, vengefully. A coincidence meeting on the luxury catamaran cruise through the Galapagos Islands? Hardly! As if Clara had the slightest interest in giant turtless and blue-footed birds. Clara's private investigator had informed her of Chloé's upcoming travel itinerary and after spending inflated amounts of money to kick another passenger off the sold-out cruise, Clara found herself sailing off the coast of Ecuador with her dead husband's mistress and her own attempted murderess, Chloé. God, how she had wanted to fling the dumb, old bitch over the side into the Pacific! But no. Wait, just wait. Patience, dear Clara.

Clara's favorite part of New York City's famous floating tea gardens were the stairs leading up to it. No elevators. They also provided a lovely setting to dispatch the vile Chloé into the nether world. None would be the wiser if some rich old lady had slipped and fallen down the steps to a crippling injury or death.

Clara Piedmont's plan was one of stealth, more than violence, she assured herself. There was a possibility of collateral damage to innocent others, but Clara dismissed it. There was always some sort of price to pay for vengeful justice. She made a call to her private investigator, who would do anything for a buck, and instructed him to loosen the second step at the top of the stairs leading to the floating tea gardens. Clara then made another call to the tea gardens for the earliest reservation of the next day, a table for two.

Clara and Chloé, two hearts that belonged to one man, ascended the stairs to the floating tea gardens. The day was glorious, a clear and enchanting fall day. Clara led the way, using the right-side hand rail. She knew Chloé was left-handed and that put Chloé at a disadvantage should she'd have needed to grip the handrail for any reason.

Clara also knew that all that ballroom dancing of Chloé's had kept her nimble and strong. It made her physically competitive with Clara as well. She first noticed it on the catamaran when Chloé would try to one-up her tacking or raising the sails. She confirmed it when Chloé tried to outpace her during their first walk in Central Park. Clara remembered all this and indeed, she counted on Chloé's competitive spirit, when she skipped over the second step and hopped onto the top of the landing.

Sure enough, Chloé took the bait. She even made it to the top of the landing. But Clara's body was blocking her forward movement and Chloé's foot landed backwards on the already loosened second step. She tottered, arms flailing and for one long, long second, her eyes locked on Clara's smug and smiling face.

Clara had always loved the fall in New York City. The colorful leaves and the fresh wind blowing through them uplifted her. It was the wind, however, that not only thwarted her vengeful plans, but left her remorseful for the rest of her days.

A pinpoint breeze picked up a split second before Chloé began her fateful tumble. The breeze blew the end of an elegant silk and wool muffler wrapped snugly around Clara's neck. The end of the scarf blew toward Chloé and landed as a lifeline in her hand. Panicked, Chloé grasped the muffler in an unpriable death grip as she fell back. The two women crashed violently down the long, steep steps of NYC's floating tea gardens and landed in a broken and bloody mound of old lady flesh.

"Oh, screw you and QVC, too!" Clara screams at her roommate of ten years. She and Chloé had been in a horrible 'accident' a decade ago. Now nearing 80 years old, the women have enough evidence against each other to put them both in a prison infirmary for the rest of their bed-ridden, quadriplegic lives. The two had suffered the exact same spinal vertebrae injury, had gone through hospitalization and physical therapy in the same facilities and had the same team of doctors and attendants in the same nursing home. Naturally, the staff determined the two were 'friends' who bicker like 'friends' and thoughtfully set them up in the same room.

"I want to watch Desperate Housewives," Clara whines again as loudly as she can. She hates that old bitch Chloé and her stupid obsession with QVC. Clara wants some spice in her life, not some boring metaverse window-shopping. (They have to share a metaverse screen in their room, and the staff is constantly breaking up fights like some third-party interloper.) Clara releases a screaming curse that brings an attendant running.

"You two have another widdle mad-mad at each other again?", the attendant asks in his stupid baby voice like he's talking to children. Clara scowls. Chloé beams; she is still conniving.

He switches programs on the unit. "How about sailing around some islands for a little bit on a great big catamaran, ladies?", he asked gently, babying them. "There's a great Discovery Channel program on about some islands where there are giant turtles and birds with blue feet."

Time: Eternity
Place: Purgatory

Oh, man. Well, over here in Purgatory, I might be having an epiphany of sorts over that last one. It was just too close for comfort. I think I can even see a light ahead. Sure, it's dim but it's there.

It's hard to believe, but believe me. I've finally forgiven that poor young woman who had kissed my soon-to-be husband. And I'm devastated that I killed her. So I'm asking you. Please.

Will you forgive me?

Will you forgive others?

If only for your own sake?

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