Start the night out with a dress-check style affirmation, contemplation on exacerbation of 
my appearance –- cos I needs a standing ovation, in terms of opposite and same sex neh-cess
-ih-tay-shun slash team-work masturbation; why this I need--for assassination. For the peoples 
elation. Whether they know or not know, you know?

I’ve gotta act tough, act smart and excrete the winner act from every pore of my currently 
unwashed and ungroomed expresser of shallow feelings, dishonest; the carrier of various 
seemingly important body parts for smelling and tasting various things that make me wanna 
die constantly. See in order for my killing of the fool to go through there’s at least a 
few things I gotta do.

Gotta score some drugs.

First I go, scruffiness fully in tact, eyes bloodshot reeking of booze binges and the need
 for constant cancer lung-singes to the street. Where everything’s happening. Maybe get into 
a fight with a homeless crack head.  Need the appearance of near death suicidal necessity 
and/or self-retribution for regrets of several life choices. 

Now looking like something the road kill ate for lunch I go. The hookers are out of course. 
Huge sagging flesh and hair like leather face like hair and something terrible coming out 
of their aura like a walking disease but more lacking in high-class fibers. Ferocity in the 
form of salesman, not salesman like door to door, but whore to whore, or the poor to the 
poor, the kind of salesman who seems to sell soda screaming, whispering, cola cola cola, 
and I know this is who I need. 

You there, with the eye-patch smelling of licorice death. Bug poison and a tinge of after-
sex guilt and a cellophane angst wrapping to keep the paranoia and hostility fresh for lunch
 kids. And I get my needs, not for myself I don’t do those type of status lowering activities 
I stick to huffing stories from assholes and beating the shit out of myself, but not physically 
more like the type of white-trash husband who calls his wife names cause he’s too drunk to fist 
fight or fist fuck so he just cries from the phonebooth. Always tells the truth. 

So tow in hand. In pocket in hand. Ampersand I’m off to the next stage which is dress casually. 
So go home, pick a camouflage t-shirt with holes in the armpits, unintentionally of course, 
through force of wear; the tears are just there, not sure how they got there. Don’t stare. 

Jeans, of course. Gotta have jeans. Tight jeans, because showing off my various dangling parts 
and fat chunks is of the utmost important. Sex is focused in microscope view, not electron 
microscope for dead beings, although I feel more like a zombie than a werewolf, in terms of 
energy and hairiness, disregarding strange facial growths, i.e. unibrows and/or hair connections 
between e.g. hairline and eyebrow.

No need to comb. & this isn’t just because I don’t have a comb, much less a reason to do so, 
based on the contemporarily appealing nature of dirty, tousled hair...

Knowing the sexual inclinations of the so-called commander in chief, lover of tight briefs 
and of course extremely wet queefs, the kind so juicy and fully of bass that the labia will 
flap in the wind like some giant pink flesh-kite being flown on a tampon string by some fat 
idiot kid wearing a purple No Fear™  hat and hi-tops… it seems to make sense at the moment... 
not sure of the exact meaning but it needs to be done, of course, the difficult part is achieving 
physical proximity to the target. 

Of course a location of narrowed gender variety would be of preference, limited in the sense that
of course both sexes are present but usually in the form of closet case too big to fit in or simply 
walking boxes coming to avoid sexual predators and the smell of cheap cologne and Eminem’s disgusting 
influence on those poor y-chromosome bearing creatures, infected with a penis —- at birth. 

One possible approach is the tried and true “pose as a male prostitute” model: I have used this tactic 
to eliminate many targets, including (but not limited to) Chris Farley, Bruce Lee and John Denver.

Irregardless, the exact approach does not matter. The important thing is that the target is isolated, 
and intoxicated. The low grade marching powder acquired, as described previously, will be used to 
render him even less in control of his senses, memory and motor skills. 

Naturally he will be in the mood for unethical fornication. I will use this to my advantage.

Sexual preferences aside, mine being solidified in the direction of the bearers of evil, ridiculous 
curves and genetic lottery winners bearing facial features and fat allocation that is pleasing to me 
for no other reason than three meaningless English words “I am heterosexual,” I should not let the 
target penetrate any of my orifices. Likewise, I shall not touch his genitals, with the exception of 
certain situations demanding a crude and ritualistic vasectomy executed with lackluster effort and a rusty LadyBic™. 

Not that I myself own a LadyBic™. 

First I would say to the target, bend over; there is something important I must do. At this point, 
the disgusting shell of a human being would bend over exposing a meager sack and a pitiful penis, 
and I would proceed to cut out both of his Achilles’ heels, as an effective demobilization. 

Then I will proceed to carve bad poetry into his chest, face and buttocks. His tongue will be removed, 
of course, and shoved up his ass, so that both of his main forms of communication will be hampered indefinitely. 

(or until he makes his next bowl movement, which should either have happened, due to the intense fear my
 mutilations will bring on him, or never, should he not survive long enough to defecate willingly.)

At this point the target will be fully immobilized, and ready to die. I will let him lie down, 
facing away from Qibla, of course, and slit his throat. I will not say Bismillah, Allahu akbar,
 but will instead recite the lyrics to Black Flag’s “Gimmegimmegimme”, and piss on the corpse 
while playing air-guitar. 

Rock.