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One of the more interesting jobs I've had, really. Find a way to take out one James Joseph Harrison, JJ to his friends (Of which he had few). A rich man, rich gambler, dabbler in things he really shouldn't dabble in. The fellow took all his money and spent it. Extravagantly. No expense was too high for his comfort. Designer clothing, huge mansions, boats by the boatload, limos everywhere, helicopter flights, golf buggy transport between any distance that didn't have a road. He was flabby and ugly. The women fell over him in droves. If they were blonde, busty and anywhere near looking like a Playboy bunny, they were fair game. They were all money hungry bitches. But that's fair enough, it's not like he had enough of a personality to like in the first place. He was loud, obnoxious and inordinately proud of himself. He was the stereotypical Texan, where everything was big, big, and bigger. Nobody liked him very much; they tolerated him because of his status, but generally tried to avoid any form of social contact with him. Not that that stopped him from insinuating himself into social situations. He was nothing if not a canny bastard, however; he knew his politics, and where and when he could place himself for maximum exposure and effect. He would have made a great Senator; really, he had the nose for the business. Despite his political know how, he still managed to step on many peoples toes unknowingly, blinded by his pride. I had been contacted by no less than three different 'agencies' to contract the discreet removal of JJ's contribution to the human gene pool. Never one to turn down a good contract, the fact that three of them contacted me individually said something about this target. Also the fact that out of the three, two of them were directly opposed to one another left poor JJ in a position that really wasn't conducive to his usefulness in the future. Working for peanuts is all very fine if you're an elephant, but getting paid three times for the one job is something nobody should turn down. "Driver boy! Take me to the club!" He was dressed in a pinstripe suit that was supposed to be slimming. Fat chance. The silver headed cane was firmly grasped as he sprawled out on the large seat, shiny black shoes resting on the opposite bench as he eyed the bar fridge. The half chewed toothpick migrated from the left side of his mouth to the right, in rapid motion as the words spat out of his mouth. Lowering the brim of my rather smart (if I do say so myself) chauffeur's cap, I grinned and rolled gently down the drive. Suffering abuse about my driving skills for the entire trip, it was almost a relief to finally reach the country club JJ inflicted himself upon. I have to say, I wouldn't be surprised to find some of his staff chipping in to pay the bounty, the amount of churn would be stupendous in his personnel department. Throughout the constant derogations about my driving, my mother, the half-blind turtle she must have somehow fucked to have me, my inability to 'drive like a man', I'd have been surprised to know he drew breath, the toothpick travelling from one side of his mouth to the other at top speed, like a possessed conductor's baton in the hands of Bugs Bunny. He seemed to treat just about anyone lower than his social standing like that. I, of course, let it run off me, like napalm off a duck in an asbestos dinner suit posing as a penguin. It just wouldn't 'do' to be anything but professional. It still didn't stop me, however, from envisioning stuff I'd have liked to do to him if I had the time, and he wouldn't be missed. I spent a good hour with wonderful images of rotisseries and strategically placed apples and stuffing, while waiting for Mr Harrison to return, and was actually quite hungry by the end of it. Being on the staff of a target can be a blessing and a curse. For one thing, you have access to their person in a lot more ways than if you were merely a stranger off the street. You're also more overlooked, especially with people like JJ Harrison, who deign not to sully their eyes with the 'lower' class. However, it's far too easy to get caught after the fact, since you'd be the most recently hired, and therefore suspect. This case, however, was a rather unique exception to the above rules. The staff he had, usually changed in a month, as people just couldn't stand working for this pig. The only constants were the illegal immigrants he used for the scutwork, since they couldn't afford to quit. So, the 'most recently hired' problem is solved. There was also the fact that this job had been specified to 'look natural'. Now that makes a job so much the harder, since it's moronically simple to shoot someone, effortlessly easy to just off them. It's the making it look like a natural death that's the problem. If I could pull this off, I'd not have to worry about being investigated after the fact, since foul play would not be suspected. If I did my job right. I suffered under JJ Harrison for over a week before I reached my limit. Sure, I can handle being pushed around, if it suits my purposes. I allow myself to be regularly beaten up by a certain federal buffoonic ingrate, just to maintain his sense of security and superiority. JJ was in the back seat, tossing back his blood pressure pills with whiskey and maintaining his constant commentary on my actions, when I saw my opportunity. Not an opportunity to take right away, naturally, since this was supposed to look natural, and having JJ's body found with the stick shaft shoved up his arse sideways and a steering wheel wrapped around his neck would not have looked very natural at all. No, this opportunity took a little more preparation. There's an herb called digitalis, otherwise known as woolly foxglove, which can, under certain circumstances and with the right dosage, produce dangerous arrhythmia in the consumer. I wouldn't need much. The next day, the limo was ready to take Mr JJ Harrison on his daily trip. There were, however a couple of innocent additions to his normal condiments in the bar fridge. He peeked into the golden glowing depths of his food treasure chest and happily spat out his toothpick before pulling out the taffy. I should have thought of this before, really. It kept his mouth quiet (but not necessarily shut, unfortunately) for the whole trip. He finished masticating the piece of taffy just as we arrived, and snatching another toothpick from the sidebar, he hopped out and went on his merry way into the club. I sat back, a job well done, and treated myself to a piece of taffy. Man this is good stuff. The good quality salty water taffy direct from Fisherman's Wharf. No expenses were spared for good ol' JJ. No siree. I was grinning quietly as the ambulances roared up the club driveway before screeching to a halt. The obese form of JJ was then quickly trundled out on a straining gurney into the waiting emergency vehicle, which screeched back down the driveway to the nearest hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival. I knew enough about dosages to maintain that level of professionalism. I carefully disposed of all the treated toothpicks remaining in the car, burning them to ash before refilling the container with fresh ones, and driving off into the sunset. Beep beep'm, Beep beep. Yeah! End Drive My Car Asked a girl what she wanted to be I told a girl that my prospects were good Baby you can drive my car Beep beep'm beep beep yeah Baby you can drive my car I told a girl I can start right away Baby you can drive my car Beep beep'm beep beep yeah |
Baby You Can Drive My Carby Finn |