I kill people. It’s how I make my money. It’s not a malicious endeavor and it never has been. It wasn’t the first time when I was fifteen years old and the girl next door paid me fifty dollars to smother her father in his sleep and it wasn’t yesterday when I was paid five hundred thousand dollars string up a 64 year old rotary member and leave him to bleed to death while he watched his intestines change color on the floor. Some folks just have to get their message across with precise and intense flavor. Most of my clients are burning with blind rage but lack the intestinal fortitude to get the job done and the grey matter required to keep from getting caught. Most of my marks are completely oblivious to the fact that they have done anything wrong let alone something so heinous as to drive a perceived loved one to pay to have them killed.

“I had no idea she cared that I routinely and savagely penetrated our daughter while she slept in the next room”.

This type of vocation has the tendency to in every way dictate how you lead your life. You may or may not be surprised to find that most women are somewhat turned off when they find that you have ruthlessly beaten over fifteen men about the head and neck until they vacated our plane of existence. Needless to say killing people can put a slight damper on your social life. Woman and men alike have a propensity to make character judgments based on your chosen profession. I personally find the concept ludicrous. Ones choice of employment is entirely inconsequential in my eyes and has no bearing on their personality. I cannot make any appraisal of a woman who works as a secretary that I cannot about a woman who performs abortions for a living. They are both just doing their jobs so that can get home and get on with the things they truly love like crocheting and sewing garments from human flesh. It’s a crazy world filled with crazy people and I’m trying to kill some of them.

I push the accelerator down toward the floor as the engine of my Chrysler hums in front of me. I slide into the corners low and fast. I instruct the interface to begin playing Highway To Hell at eighty-eight decibels. That’s high speed, life risking drive volume. Rattles the bones and awakens the senses. The car silently does as it is instructed, which is nice. The first thing I do when ever I am going to be in any extended contact with most modern interfaces is to disable to the voice response unit. Whatever asshole thought computers should have the holier than thou condescending tone that they all do should be castrated in Madison Square Garden and left as a warning. The opening chords to Highway To Hell slam into my cochlear nerve as I accelerate into a turn. No stop signs, speed limit.

The highway opens up into the coast curving along its rocky edge. I watch the moonlight reflected in the pacific ocean as I asses the concept of being Shot Down In Flames. By the time Richard Ramirez’s favorite track begins I’m pulling up to the gates of one of the largest homes in California’s wine country. This is home of Elvin McCarthy. It is nauseatingly massive and gratuitous. McCarthy is one of the the richest men in the world which invariably means he will be paying me to kill some other inordinately rich gentleman. The rule of thumb seems to be that rich assholes tend to kill other rich assholes, which doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

I get out of the car and make my way to the biometrics scanner. I will have to stand here in front of a computer that costs more than most people will make in a year and endure a litany of tests before the com is even turned on and McCarthy is alerted to my presence. God I hate the twenty-first century. Voice recognition, an infrared scan of the vein structure in my hands, retinal scan and finally a facial thermo gram. I’m not sure what bothers me more, that I have to stand here and deal with this shit while McCarthy is undoubtedly serviced by an army of fleshless sex dwarves or that he has all the data to check these scans against. Regardless I pass with flying colors and the com crackles to life.

“Evans! Glad you’re here. Come on up.”

I walk into the foyer of McCarthy’s home and fight the urge to turn on my heels and walk right back out the door. The man has massive amounts of money and loves to flaunt it. Like my father told me before I watched him gut and skin a stray cat on our back porch; “Nobody likes a show off”.

McCarthy’s deep raspy voice echoes off the Italian marble floor as he makes his way down the curved staircase.

“Evan’s I’m so glad you could take time out of you’re busy day to meet with me.”

“What can I say Mr. McCarthy, I love helping people.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You love money. And please, call me Elvin.”

McCarthy steps down onto the ground floor and shakes my hand in his meaty paw.

“Let us adjourn to the study.”

The walls of McCarthy’s study are adorned with priceless paintings. Paintings which I had thought were on display in places like the Louvre. How foolish of me to think that when I was looking at a Da Vinci painting I was really looking at a Da Vinci painting.

“You’re a whiskey man right Evans?”

“Yes sir I am.”

McCarthy pours us each a drink and sits down across from me.

“How’s business Evans?”

“Well fortunately for me people still have hatred burning in their dark little hearts.”

Despite the fact that this is some of the finest whiskey to ever cross my pallet I am growing increasingly impatient. There’s nothing I hate more than when these rich fuckbags try to act as if we are anything more than business associates. Sometimes I wish we didn’t even have that connection. Unfortunately the money in killing for the middle class is not enough to even begin cover my cocaine habit.

“What’s the job McCarthy?”

McCarthy dips into his chest pocket, withdraws a photo and slides it across the mahogany table.

“Jesus McCarthy you don’t fuck around. Bishop is a big fucking fish. This is not going to be cheap.”

McCarthy reaches behind the chair which supports his wiry frame and produces what looks to be a deflated and wet red beach ball. He throws it on the table and it lands with a nauseating plop. I feel moisture spatter across the tops of my hands.

“What the fuck, may I ask is this?”

“This, my son is the stomach of an infant white rhino.”

I had heard of and seen many pieces of evidence which supported the claim that McCarthy was one of those morbidly wealthy rich men you read so much about on the internets. I was not aware however of the extent of his sick fuckery and penchant for meaningless and horrific displays such as this one.

“Get this thing the fuck away from me.”

“Oh you are going to want to become quite familiar with this particular stomach my boy. Within the walls of these viscous and rotting innards lies your payment.”

I bolted up out of my seat and made for the door.

“You are one sick and twisted fuck McCarthy. I will have nothing to do with this. You and you’re disembodied endangered stomach had better stay the fuck away from me.”

“He has my daughter.”

I keep walking.

“Couldn’t give any less of a fuck.”

“Two-Million dollars Evans.”

I stop dead in my tracks, something I would later punch myself repeatedly in the groin for. I walk back over to McCarthy and do my best to shoot him a chilling glare however I’m sure it couldn’t have frozen ice. I snatch up the stomach and struggle to keep my gag reflex at bay as it squishes between my fingers. I spin on my heels and make for the door before some other sort of fuckery rears its ugly head.

“I don’t do recovery McCarthy. You want your girl back send one of you castrato goons to get her.”

I give him the finger over my shoulder just before I close the door behind me.

“I’ll show myself out fuckhead.”

It would seem that we live in world that is unbearably difficult and unwieldy. If this were not the case then surely we wouldn’t need all the wonderfully time saving stupid little inventions we CANT live without. Here’s the deal, your stupid little fucking bank card is a joke. Is buying a 2 dollar and seventy-five cent comic with a card convenient? No, but you know what is? Fucking cash! Try it. When I know that Im going to buy something I get myself some real money. Its stunningly fucking easy. No waiting for a some godhead computer out in Fairfax to tell me my allowed to buy a pack of gum. No signing slips of paper in triplicate. You know what else isn’t convenient? Text messaging. Now I don’t own a cell phone but if I did and if I did in fact start getting text messages from people I know I would call them and ask them what the FUCK they’re doing. Write me a letter or give me a call. Make up your fucking mind! You are not saving time while your hunched over a LCD mashing buttons til you can convey with a nauseating E-short hand what you could have send in seconds with your fucking mouth.

Am I really this angry?

I was never a Nintendo child. I was never kept up til ungodly hours of the night by a drunk Italian in red overalls. Some people Im sure would insist that I missed out on what could have been known the greatest years of my life. These people are known as fucking morons. And Im sure that these same people would be horrified to find that not only was I not allowed to play with or own G.I.Joes but I also was not able to watch that steaming turd of a product tie-in cartoon. It would seem that my generation was endowed with the great honor of growing up with some of the most appalling cartoons of all time. However, Im not talking about cartoons Im waxing poetic on the marvels of being the first wave of the video game generation. Things were different in those days. It was a whole different world. You didn’t just walk into the bedroom and flip on your GameStation 2 and flop on the bed. No. Just getting the game to work was an ordeal in itself. You see I owned one of the greatest “gaming systems” of all time. It was huge and brown (later grey) and it radiated an incredible heat amongst other things which Im sure contributed to what I would not be surprised to find is a near non-existent sperm count. It would sometimes take up to 10 minutes to load wonderfully primitive games which managed to entertain me for hours. I’ve spent many days of my life looking for a mordern game which would even come close to showing me a mere glimmer of what I loved about some of these games…………Jesus Christ……Im a fucking geek…Im….uh…I….Better stop this right now.

Dear Mr (or Mrs.) Product Developer,

Why does it have to be this way? I Dont want a smaller product. I dont want a smaller TV with a bigger screen. I dont want a smaller credit card that I can keep tucked under my nutsack. I dont even WANT a cell phone but if I did, I would NOT want one that I can fold up and stash in my asshole. I dont want a camera that I can drink in my coffee and use to take pictures of the inside of a woman’s vagina. I dont want a anorexic heroin model girlfriend.
Also, If you get a chance could you make a tampon with some sort of silent wrapper? I’m so tired of pretending that women are in there unwrapping candybars…..Oh wait…You already did. America is fucking nuts and so are you.