BeamerMature

               If you think I’m some demented consumer bent on modelling his life after impractical television fantasies then you are dreadfully, dreadfully right on the money. But, before you settle in your seat with the warm and cozy sensation of undeserved smugness I implore you to shut up and listen. I may be part of the dejected masses who purchase television and movie DVD’s, but I am far more in-tune with reality then a lot of other people. My mom-n’-pop style contract killing home business did not begin as an attempt to idolize anyone. It was an influence, I’ll admit. However, as you may recall, my disillusionment with reality (or whatever I said) was a result of other people, not because of a buzzing box. At least I’m not on the same level of inoculated self-insanity as a video gamer.  
                   Here’s the gut wrenching moral re-awakening that hopefully sweetens this story just enough for movie executives to take notice. I once shot a family man in his secretly rented loft. His family was oblivious as to how an uneducated social rogue managed to secure a home, a nice car, nice furniture, and other expensive tastes. Originally that’s where the man was suppose to see his end, but I unexpectedly finished up in his wonderful little bachelor pad. It was very well designed and decorated. The man was known only as Beamer, given for his one-dimensional love of BMW’s. Sadly, his recognizable red M3 is what allowed me to follow him to his secret loft. Both his house and his loft were rightly decorated with natural colours, family photos, and other traditional household who-ha. It actually made his place of death enjoyable to be in. He certainly isn’t enjoying those possessions now.
              I didn’t get to radiate in the glow of his fine furniture, since a lot of his blood was on it. I was a little jealous of his great taste in tailored-suits, expensive watches, and even his CD collection. If he was a women (and not dead), I would have totally hit on him, and as I continued snooping around his loft I was quite taken back by his family photos. Beamer had an appearance. He had a smile. He had a life somewhere else. He had the ability to do wrong. Regardless of what he had done wrong, he had done something right. What had caused one to outweigh the other? It took effort on my part to be mindful I was only to do my job and no one else’s. Just as the police enforce the law, not make it up. I was there to enforce justice, not wonder why it was being delivered. Family man or not he was as much a criminal as me. I knew and probably everyone else knew there were creepy old people with more tainted souls then this Mr. Beamer staring back at me in some other moment of time when he had the blood to smile and the will to pose for just a couple of seconds.
            I was beginning to get teary. Looking over Beamer’s encapsulated existence with him still “there” lying relaxed on his fastidiously chosen designer couch. His eyes were wide open and absent of sight. It was hard not to see Beamer’s catalogue of moments coming to an unexpected crash ending, and all because of me. Sometimes it skipped my mind just how influential a human being I was. That was sort of depressing to realize, that I had some sort of ripple affect to peoples lives. I had always been given the impression I was the invisible man until I drenched myself in flamboyant house paint. And yet there I was: Dr. Death with a nice car.  
            I don’t know what was going through my mind—I was a little uneasy—but I had the striking urge to rob Beamer of his now meaningless loft positions. Maybe a sculpture or a vase or something small. I ended up confiscating an expensive ball point pen, one of his family portraits, and a CD by an obscure French band called Ménage à Trois. It probably would have been a better idea to drive off with Beamer’s well-built German automobile, but I couldn’t leave my metal Lucifer.
            I’m happy with myself as a human being. I got out of the trade the right way: alive. I did not achieve my entrepreneurial dream because I had a death wish. I adapted to that which would grant me success. Is that so inhuman? Do others not involve themselves in legal criminal activity like hunting animals, cutting down trees, or running oil companies and banks knowing they’re ruining people’s lives? My crimes are measly in comparison. They are nothing but sparks of a lighter up against a roaring house fire.
             

 

The End

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