Shell Shocked: The stupid assassin
This is the story of a stupid assassin. He kept zapping the wrong people, threw Molotov cocktails in the wrong buildings and several times he fired a rifle without having installed the bullets.
He was called before the internal review board of the International Hit Person Association. There would be hell to pay.
Chairman: Mr. Smith (all names have been changed to prevent classified information to ever reach Fox News). You are a disgrace to our profession. How can you be so stupid? Your employers have complained to this board numerous times about your failure and inability to carry out your carefully planned assignments. Why should we grant you yet another reprieve?
Assassin: Because I love my work. I find it motivating, stimulating, and rewarding. I can make more money whacking people than I ever made as a shoe salesman. Just thinking of the smell of those feet I used to put shoes on makes me wretch.
Chairman: But our records show that you only succeeded in just 50% of your assignments last year. Your employers have complained bitterly to us that you allowed the targeted hits to get away. This diminishes our reputation for reliability and accuracy. No other profession would accept this. One of your recent employers was shocked to see his partner arrive at the office the next day. The plan was for the partner to be visiting Davey Jones’s locker the night before. The employer paid good money to get rid of his partner so that he could run their hot dog stand by himself. You’ve put the employer into an untenable situation. He now has to continue smiling at his partner’s bad jokes and bad breath when all he wanted was to tell the police that his partner had disappeared and he doesn’t know where he is.
Assassin: Yes, it was my mistake. I had a photo of the target but forgot to take it with me. I thought I had memorized the target’s face from the photo but I forgot to take my distance glasses with me. Beginnings of cataracts, you know. I was told that the target would be dining at a nearby fast food restaurant. I slipped the poison into another diner’s glass by mistake. I realized I had poisoned the wrong target when out of my blurry eyes I saw the target still sitting there and saw the wrong diner fall through the plate glass window of the restaurant. Not a good day for me.
Chairman: Not a good day for you? How about not a good day for the reputation of hit men? How can we allow a hit man with poor eyesight to be a card carrying assassin? Our reputation for efficiency and accuracy is now being called into question. We have a lot of explaining to do.
Assassin: Not to worry. I made an appointment with my eye doctor. Unless, of course, he’s a target himself. But if he is, I can get my eyes examined first and then send him off to his eternal resting place afterwards where he can correct the vision of nearsighted ghosts.
Chairman: The internal review committee has reviewed your case and made the following decision. You are hereby excommunicated from the association and must turn in all your hit tools today. This means your guns, rifles, nooses, knives, poison, swords, harpoons, plastic bags, spears, blackened tuna and scrabble boards.
Assassin: Oh, please don’t. I promise to reform and be more professional. You can’t take away the one profession I’ve adored since watching the first “Godfather” movie. I’ve patterned my whole life after Michael Corleone.
Chairman: It’s too late, I’m afraid. We’re going to transfer you to a sister organization where you can stay out of trouble as well as the public eye — the U.S. post office. You’ll be giving out postage stamps. Maybe one day when you’ve proved that you can handle a hit man’s responsibility we can bring you back. In the meantime, please avoid whacking post office customers.
Assassin: Okay, I’ll do my time at the post office, but I’ll be back. You’ll see. One day I will do you all proud and be on the honor role of the International Hit Person Association.