Murder of a Salesman
People say a lot of things as they die.
Many just stare, mouths agape, unable to fully comprehend the final experience of their lives, others call out for loved ones, deities, or even their killer.
Some ask for help.
The more philosophically inclined transcend and understand. They won’t ask for help, or even relief from the immediate pain. Instead they’ll say: “I don’t wanna die.” or maybe: “Not like this.” – if they’re worried about their legacy n’all.
Hell, I’ve even gotten a: “Thank you” this one time.
But, “I once won a steak-eating contest”...
That was new, even for me. Really threw me off. I mean... How out-of-context is that?
So I let it fly, at first. When you’ve killed a man - you’re smart - you get the hell outta Dodge. Blew town and followed it in the news, thinking: “Why would he – fuck, why would anyone - say that?”
Now. I don’t usually research my targets, it might surprise you to hear. It just tends to muck things up. Sure, if I was a’ kill the President or sumthin’, I’d have to, but most of my contracts are for low-lives, or sometimes CEO’s of mid-sized companies, or the like, so y’see research is jus’ plain unnecessary. Best and easiest way is, nine times outta ten, walk by in the street as he or she comes home, shoot 'em real quick, use a silencer of course, then drive off and go get rid of your clothes and gun.
Simple, efficient. No fancy crap.
This guy - I had to research. I mean... “I once won a steak-eating contest” ?
So I google, and I ask around, and nothing – nothing!
The guy was a divorced salesman in his forties, good enough terms with the ex... Relationship to this black secretary lady, but they weren’t really going nowhere. More or less liked or nothing’d by his co-workers... And I’m asking: “Who in the hissin’ world would bother to kill this non-entity?”
Now here is where it gets unprofessional; I call up Jorge – at this point I just gotta know, right? I mean, gotta, capital G. He don’t like it none, but he ends up givin’ me the phone number that the hit was ordered from. Some phonebooth down New Mexico, can you believe it?
So I drive to this little town, the kind with a gas-station, a bar and two whorehouses. Un-fucking-forgiving sun, all day long – by afternoon you’d swear you’ve run a marathon.
There’s just one phonebooth in town, so I try to scope it out a few days. Turns out it ain’t much easy, seeing as everybody knows everybody in this place, and they’re probably related to half of 'em.
Anyway, I can’t for the life of me see any connection between Mr. Dead-salesman and Fuck-where, New Mehico. So finally I decide to give up on the thing and head on home. I drive maybe twenty or twenty-five miles outta town, and it’s nearing eight in the evenin’, and my two-month-old, fussy glove-compartment winegums are starting to look real delicious, know what I mean?
So I pull over at this place – something largely uninteresting; “Dil’s Family Restaurant” or something like the sort, and it’s a good place: Polite waitresses, alright food, nothing special...
'Cept they’re advertising this annual eating-contest – steak-eating contest...
You see where this is going, right?
All excited, I go straight over and check out their hall of fame, and it reads like this:
1989: Mildred ‘Mutilator’ Ramsey
1990: Mildred ‘Mutilator’ Ramsey
1991: Mildred ‘Mutilator’ Ramsey
1992: Mildred ‘Mutilator’ Ramsey
1993: - // -
1994: - // -
And on, and on, 'till:
2001: Dead McSalesman
How about that?
The guy once won a steak-eating contest...
If you liked this, check out this, which is in the same storyline. I think.
Coherence will be added as time and circumstance allows.