Californian Brianna Moore, who recently finished her sixth-grade year at Fremont Christian Elementary, enjoys reading, writing, drawing, sports, animation, and video games. She reports one brother, Brently Tolliver, two guinea pigs, Snowflake and Oscar, and a father who actively supports Brianna’s writing and learning. Brianna is only eleven years old, but don’t let her young age fool you; she’s one of the best we’ve published. In fact, her first publication credit, for her science fiction piece “Galaxy Field Trip”, when she was in the third grade! Not bad.
On the other hand, this story does center on something bad, something worse, even, than onion breath…

"Liver and Onions"
by Brianna Moore

From the Journal of Sir John Malzberg, June 11, 1965

Some believe the noted Russian agent and assassin, Losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, died by my hand.

In a way yes, and in a way no.

Besides being named after the father of Joseph Stalin, Losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili was noted for his love of onions. He'd eat them like apples and would make a point of telling you how much he loved them to your face.

While I certainly had a hand in his death, the circumstances of it are rather muddled at best.

As with most stories, the initial events are quite mundane. One day, my MI6 superior gave me an assignment in the upper latitudes of Canada. As a favor for the Americans, I was to rendezvous with a contact near the town of Mayo, in the Yukon Territory. The contact was to turn over something that was apparently highly valued by the Americans.

Needless to say, going to the snow and gloom didn't appeal to me, but in addition to that, I was to be accompanied by Dzhugashvili, who had the same orders (to obtain it for the Russians, not the Americans), but with a grisly twist. He was to kill me before I reached the rendezvous. How I came about this information is another story I won't go into right now.

In the perfectly civilized manner that typifies the conduct of spies, I didn't tell him I knew. I believe he knew that I knew, but I wasn't going to tell him that I knew that he knew.

Did any of this worry me? Not at all. We spies are such egotists. We think we can handle anything. If you don't, you won't last long in this profession.

Why was I traveling with him in the first place?

Why not?

I'd rather have him with me than stalking me from behind.

Back then the Americans could be somewhat naive. They thought of the whole thing in terms of money and sweet reason. They assumed, quite correctly, that they could outbid the Russians. Given that truth, the Russians were not going to invest more than they had to when the simple expedient of a death in the snow would allow them to get what they wanted rather cheaply.

So according to the boys with the fat pockets and heads to match, I was to travel with this Russian agent, thwart any attempt on my life, and once at the rendezvous, dazzle the contact with the righteousness of their cause and the bottomless barrels of their money.

Piece of cake.

Dzhugashvili and I met at the town of Tuktoyaktuk in Canada's Northwest Territory. Under the guise of a personally sworn truce between us, one I was sure he had no intention of honoring; we decided to do some hunting on the way to the rendezvous.

Now I will tell you, that I loathe hunting of the sort where innocent beasts are involved. But as part of our "buddy arrangement" I participated in this ghastly activity. While I fired away at anything moving, just as Dzhugashvili did ? I kept an eye on his rifle muzzle to make certain it was pointed down range.

While traveling through bear country, I remembered hearing that the meat of a polar bear was quite delicious and told Dzhugashvili I wished to bag one. To make it more interesting, I wagered him on whose shot would bring it down.

He didn't get the rich streak of irony of the symbolism of our wager.

A few days later Dzhugashvili felled the animal with one shot. I dutifully paid the wager, did the lion share of carving up of the luckless creature, packed the cuts onto our sleds, and in the course of the next few days, did most of the cooking.

As I've already noted, Dzhugashvili had a devotion to the genus allium cepaI. I pointedly told him I did not share his enthusiasm for the odorous bulb. I cooked my meat separately from him, but watched closely to make sure he didn't cover my portion with curtains of sliced onions.

Eventually we used up all of our bear except the liver, which was a gigantic thing.

For dinner one night, I sliced it very thin, spiced it and sautéed it over a low flame. The odor of its cooking teased me to believe I was to have a fine dining experience.

It wasn't meant to be.

While outside our tent getting some more fuel for our heater, Dzhugashvili piled onions all over the slices -- his as well as mine. I was furious, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

I ate some partially frozen jerky as I watched Dzhugashvili gorge himself on our liver. He grinned that gap-tooth grin of his the whole meal, occasionally stopping to laugh, at what I believe he perceived as my discomfiture.

He died later that night.

Well not to spit in fates' eye, I stripped his body of all valuables, including the money I recently lost to him, piled his goods, especially his excellent rifle, on my sled, freed his dogs, and left him for the drifting snows to do their work.

Now I know you're wondering what it was that killed Dzhugashvili?

Too much Vitamin A.

Let me explain.

While relaying the circumstances of Dzhugashvili's passing to MI6, some bright young fellow explained to me what must have happened. You see there is an exceptional over concentration of Vitamin A in the liver of polar bears. Ingestion is usually fatal.

So, did I kill him?

Not exactly.

I just fed him.

END