Who knew shameless, paid murder could be such a sitcom, such a farce of a crime? Follow as one nameless 'mercenary' suffers a comedy of errors on his way to whacking wanted criminals.
Imagine for a minute you're in my shoes: you're an assassin. Your mission is too whack two targets-man and woman-without alerting the authorities. The location is a home appliance store encased in a mall. The time is mid-afternoon. Throngs of people block every line of sight, fill every inch of air with incurable concoctions of obscure perfume. Boxes of redundant kitchen utensils and home appliances (let's jam a television into the side of a bread maker) are scattered across small amounts of floor space, serving as makeshift aisles, lane ways, fire hazards. What do you do? What action do you take to complete the task at hand without suffering collateral damage? Whatever your answer is, it probably would have been a lot better than what I went with.
Apathetic to emptying the place out before beginning the assassination, I drew a standard pistol and fired randomly. A quick-witted counter attendant threw a monstrous porcelain dinner plate at me just before the 10th or 11th bullet was on its trajectory. The plate collided around my right elbow, forcing one lonely bullet into the thigh of some grandmother. There was a tremendous clash of glass, a noise of opulence shattering.
People in the store after that were basically loose change in a dryer, frantically dotting about hoping to hop through an exit. I didn't care because I was in remarkable pain. I was barely holding onto the pistol still clenched in my right hand. I gazed around first for the cashier who had caused me such agony, but in the flurry of wild mall animals, he/she/it had fled.
I wiped up the bits of my blood before it could hit the floor. My right arm was tingling and useless thanks to the strange sensation it was no longer attached to my shoulder. I could hardly lift the pea-shooter to my eye's line of sight, let alone actually aim. Luckily, my targets were brainless and had not moved. They simply turned towards me and gawked in confusion. I strenuously aimed my pistol a second time, fired, and clearly missed, hitting some sort of Venetian vase. I dropped the gun, exhausted.
The two targets finally found my attempt at capital punishment objectionable and lunged towards me. We got into a traditional tussle-rolling over boxes, pushing things out of the way, and generally making a mess of the place.
The chaos and confusion was causing our pathetic brawl to be interrupted by screeching mall patrons, unambiguously thick headed enough for me to lament more then I am. I pushed the female target into a mountain of boxes and then followed suit again with the male. Stuck on the floor, the woman-who had the most wonderful style of fashion, I would like to add-found a set of steak knives, coincidently. She tore through the box covering with the grace of a ravenous boar and set about seeking to see me with a stab wound to the stomach. I jolted around our makeshift monkey enclosure desperately looking for my gun while cupping a dinner plate wound. During my futile search, the woman's partner had worked his way into a box of BBQ utensils, soon generating a rather frightening looking two-pronged stabber used for checking the tenderness of meat. Together, the kitchen tool killers advanced. I was pretty sure I was an idiot at that point and was going to be seriously injured in a more gruesome way then before. I prayed at that moment for my life to be a humourless action movie where trivialities like reality, physics, nature, and such where suspended just for me. Luckily, stupidity is more powerful than prayer.
I hatched an inconceivably ingenious plan: I began kicking and throwing shit around. In hast, I threw an opened box of white dinner plates. Out of all the times I missed with my invalid left hand I managed this time around to hit the female target in the head. Another smash of glass. She fell straight down in a hail of white shininess. In comical fashion the knives she had unpackaged went air borne and fell back down onto...well I think you can imagine the scenario quite fine. The fact that she was on the floor not moving should be enough. In any case, the male target convulsed into a state of shock. I took his moment of stupidity as an opportunity to walk up and drearily jam the BBQ utensil in around his heart. Or, maybe it was his lungs? I don't remember, I'm not a doctor. Given how fast he fell to the floor I probably poked something important. I sighed with a heavy breath. I confirmed the two fatalities or at least fatal injuries, found my Fischer-Price water gun, and then casually left. The whole ordeal had taken around a minute.
Crowds outside the store had resorted to levels of mentality on par with garden variety vegetables as they tried to figure out whether or not to leave ("There's been a shooting! Oh but I must have that sweater first"). It was a merry-go-round of lunacy as people shuffled in circles waiting for uniformed officials to tell them to leave. To make sure my visible wound wouldn't grab unnecessary attention, I squeezed my arm into a cast that I cleverly carried in my backpack and left.
News reports afterwards wrongly reported on many things. Apart from skewing my intentions, they absurdly labelled me the "serving-dish slaughter" because newspaper editors lack a sense of humour. I never lived that title down. Second, the grandmother eventually recovered in hospital within a couple of days. While in the hospital, however, she contracted pneumonia and died three weeks later. I was falsely blamed for her death. Me of all people! I only sort of killed her.
What news reporters failed to realize was the gripping life story behind the brutality of home appliances. They failed to search me out for my extraordinary climb to the top of the contract killing criminal underground, and eventual graceful resignation from the business after a gut-wrenching, moral and spiritual re-awakening following the whacking of an unlawful family man with too much furniture. It's a perfect plot for today's materialistic bohemian youth. It has too be told.