In order to keep my business afloat in an era of technological claustrophobia I created a facebook account dedicated to my mob job. Not something to brag about, I know. On reflection I’ve probably given up some of my humanity just to create it. I feel like a poorly displayed dreary piece of fruit at a grocery store every time I log on. Nowadays it’s like no individual really exists until they have a Facebook account. I guess it was about time someone invented a useless tool more hideous and addictive then real material narcotics. But I didn’t just create it for my own personal insecurities. With it I managed to advance my mercenary home business into the 21st century. I discovered a good portion of my targets actually owned accounts with their own slew of publicly posted clandestine photos and information. I changed my profile to an innocent one-syllable pseudonym and set about centering my business on the voluntary surrender of privacy.
So successful was the Facebook method, I was soon getting hit requests over my account. On some occasions I asked my clients for html addresses instead of names. I must have been one of the first to try such a scheme because while other contractors were getting caught red-handed with cell-phone records, I somehow passed right under the radar. Not to mention the fact I too am unable to describe myself except through lists of my favourite movies, television shows, and celebrity lifestyles.
During a rather dry month for business I was sent a target’s Facebook page with the following description: “This here Captain Cocksure owes money. Dead or alive. Prefer he remains alive for continued payments.” First impressions on such a deadpan call for a contract killer wouldn’t usually excite the senses. I was, however, supplied with his account and I realized this was just the job for me. This target of mine, this Captain Cocksure, was a real pompous dipshit. He loaded his picture album with nothing but body shots of himself trying out irreverent, conformist, conceited clothing—patterned multi-coloured T-shirts with collars flipped up, and of course some make-up obsessed inflatable balloon of a girlfriend by his side to complete the whole flamboyant lifestyle he wanted others to know he had. I had to be Dr. Death on that juncture. I had to put in his place that egotistical fashion horse. It was going to be ridiculously easy. On the very night someone wanted Captain Cocksure whacked or at least robbed, the target helpfully posted for all to see that he would be “with ma gerl” at some downtown snobbish nightclub, sporting his usual intellectual deficiency. I put on my usual attire and left in my metal Lucifer.
The nightclub was not hard to find. Google maps made quick work of its location. The trendy sign portraying its name could be seen from miles away. Inside, though, you were lucky enough to see people’s hair colour. Luckily for me Captain Cocksure’s colourful fashion easily popped out amongst the darkness. He was sitting with a similarly dressed yet noticeably duller group of three friends around a glass table. Each had in front of him a martini despite most of them appearing to be under the legal drinking age.
With confidence in my stride and a breath of anger as my cologne, I walked up to Captain Cocksure and produced McTarget’s silver paper-weight pistol, because it was easier to see in the nightclub. Mr. Dickhead at first didn’t notice the gun. No, pathetically, his sight focused on my clothing style. He snorted out some snobby criticism and then chuckled with that incessantly narcissistic cackle of a laugh.
The super cool and awesome thing to do, as dictated by Prophet Schwarzenegger, would be to flip over the glass table with a terrific splash of glass. Conventional wisdom for a contract killer, however, states not to make a scene. If my intention was to splatter Captain Cocksure’s brains over his friends, then that wouldn’t apply. But because I would get a greater pay if I just stole his wallet with his brains secure I had to be cautious. I waved my silver pistol around, displaying it in front of his face like a Calvin Klein fragrance, something he’d be more familiar with. His face went pale, and then to confusion, and then finally to some weird emotion I’ve never seen before. His brainless friends followed along.
At that moment in time, the awful recollections of pompous popular teenagers with bad grammar and worse intelligence danced around in my feverish mind. I began to twitch in anger. The gun was creaking like an old cabinet under my fist’s enclosure. My eyes winked with erratic frustration. I had yet to even open my mouth when I swiftly directed the silver extended limb of mine towards Captain Cocksure’s feet and fired once without aiming. Pitifully, I missed everything but the floor. But it didn’t matter, because it was all cool and awesome looking. The pretentious windbag jumped up onto his chair, no longer sporting that irritating self-absorbed smirk of his.
I decided to explain what was going on. Clearly absent of a colony of brain cells, I explained it to him twice. He asked me how I found him. I cleverly explicated a fallacious story, something any action movie secret-agent would have been impressed with, since clearly using Google Maps was not something Mr. Die Hard would have done. I took his wallet and opened it up. Why anyone would carry in the comfort of their back pocket enough money to purchase a used automobile was beyond me. I took all of it, except for the cost of the drinks. With music still blaring, people still dancing, and the entire place still drowning in cologne, I left without a fuss.