TOLD.

“Are there monsters?” I asked once.

“Are there monsters?” I asked twice.

Yes, yes, and yes, he said.

He told me when I asked him thrice.

 

They’re right there in the closet.

They’re right there under the bed.

“Watch out, watch out, when it’s dark.

They’ll jump out and make you dead.”

 

Big brother knows these things.

Big brother has seen it all.

“Make sure, make sure, you’re not alone.

I’ll help you when you call.”

 

“Help, come quick!” I cry.

“Help, come quick!” I scream.

Monsters, monsters, everywhere.

And this is not a dream.

 

Big brother what will you do?

Big brother what’s that you said?

“Cry, cry, and cry some more,

You should’ve seen that look of dread.”

 

Ha. Ha. Ha.

 

“Are there monsters?” I asked once.

“Are there monsters?” I asked twice.

No, no, and no they said.

They told me when I asked them thrice.

 

They’re not there in the closet.

They’re not there under the bed.

“Take care, take care, and listen up,

Ignore what your brother said.”

 

My parents know these things.

My parents have seen it all.

“We know just what you’re going through.

We’ll help you when you call.”

 

“Help, come quick!” I cry.

“Help, come quick!” I scream.

Monsters, monsters everywhere

And this is not a dream.

 

Dad what will you do?

Mom what’s that you said?

“We’ll look into the closet.

And we’ll check under the bed.”

 

“No monsters here,” they call.

“No monsters here,” they state.

“Relax, relax, don’t worry dear.

Sound sleep will be your fate.”

 

Zz. Zz. Zz.

CURED.

I’ve been running around for much of my life,

I can’t get a job. I can’t find a wife.

Oh, I’ve been married before. I’ve known my true love,

And she’s with me now, looking down from above.

It wasn’t my fault, but I couldn’t quite save her,

Time passes on, but memories won’t waver.

And I’ve had an odd job, one here and one there,

But they didn’t last long. I had to beware.  

Had to be on the move. I never could stay.

I left just as soon as I had a bad day.

I was sick you see, and that’s why I ran.

I don’t wish this life on any a man.

What was wrong? What happened you ask?

I became someone else, with no help from a mask,

No special tricks and no magic potions,

I just couldn’t seem to control my emotions.

I’ve never worked out but I felt very strong.

That’s when I knew that something was wrong.

To rage or to fear, I was never a stranger,

But it never before brought this type of danger.

I never remember, I think I black out,

I see people run and I hear people shout,

I hope no one’s killed. I hope no one’s hurt.

And I’m left to ponder what I did with my shirt.

My actions were cruel but my heart was quite pure.

I had only one purpose, to search for a cure.

So I decided to run, to live on the lam,

It was better to not have a friend or a fam.

No one I love would be rattled with fears,

No one I love would shed many tears.

I scoured the globe. I searched all over.

I checked every plant, every flower and clover.

From the top of earth to the bottom of sea,

I tried to find out what would rescue me.

Years went on, depression set in.

I’ll be like this forever and I’ll never have kin.

I’ll always be known for the damage I’ve wrought,

Who knows what a normal life would have brought?

But then one day, I found it I did.

My alternate man kept under lid.

A permanent end, finally cured.

I could finally live with my name not obscured.

I was happy at first. My goal was achieved.

But after a while I felt kind of peeved.

I didn’t know why, I was finally free.

But I started to miss the alternate me.

And now that he’s gone, a thing of the past,

I’m hoping that this present state will not last.

So I’m off to the lab, where it started at first,

Where once long ago I thought I was cursed.

So I welcome back my loss of control,

Being normal, you see, has taken its toll.

And here once again I change my life’s course,

I want back my strength, my power and force.

I want back my rage and I want back my bulk,

For I was once known as the incredible hulk.

A Man Bored

What’s left to do, what’s left to see?

There can’t be anybody as bored as me!

I made a promise to the ones that I love,

And I did it, you see, the best way I knew of.

I was pretty important, I was very needed.

My advice, however, was never quite heeded.

The cops weren’t all keen, they said I was bad,

But they had no problems with many a lad,

Who brought crime to the streets and preyed off the fearful,

But when I was done they were not quite so cheerful.

I’ve done my job, I’ve finished it quickly,

The streets are now safe for the young and the sickly.

No need to fear, no need to fret,

The goons are all gone and their sentences set.

The city is clean, the city is gay.

That’s good news for all, but it ruins my day.

Now what do I do, now what can I say,

Nothing is wrong and no one must pay,

I never quite knew how much it would hurt,

To know that I’m now as useless as dirt,

Can I find something else? Would I know what to do?

Could I get a job like the rest of you?

I don’t think so, I don’t think that I can,

After all… I’m Batman.

Binny The Creeper

Binny the creeper loves just to see her.
Watching through her window hoping that the douche would leave her.
But feet run slow with married gals and Binny knows his fate,
he'll have to call his high zoom lens as going on a date.
Binny the creeper knows all about her,
from the size of her feet to the shade of her powder.
He can tell you when she eats great, sleeps late, ovulates,
all the name brands of unwanted rebates.
But does she feel great? head ache? love her mate?
Would she let you know what things she'd love to hate?
Binny the Creeper knows he can't keep her,
as his wife is getting cautious as his lies are getting steeper.
For candid shots are getting lots and busting out their cardboard box
and soon she'll see that private drawers are filled with more than rolled up socks.
and Binny the father would rather not bother
as to tell of his life to his sweet wife and daughter.
So Binny the creeper will push it down deeper
in a time ticking fate as he knows he can't keep her.

The Runners are Back

The Runners are back the runners are back.
Get your goofy leggings kicking as the snow drifts of the track.
Ellipticals in silence and all treadmills worn down low
as the ice should start to flicker bringing runners ebb and flow.
Feel your frozen blood waken! Shake the frost out from thy thighs!
Beat the sleep out! Grab thy wits! And run those dusty miles.
Winter no more ruler pushing freedom way down low
as sleepy sun fights through the clouds an end to Frosty's blow.
Oh the runners are back the runners are back
for two weeks they'll be kicking strong til all beat by the track

An Interview with a Human Being

by: Ike Toms

Bill Prather was a lonely kid. Hard to believe, being a son of two famous movie stars. He certainly didn’t deserve any friends, but at least you’d figure that he’d have two or three losers leeching off of him. That was not the case and after an afternoon with him I figured out why. I had secured an interview with him a year and a half ago after the passing of his father, Ken Prather. Ken was a very popular actor who had died suddenly and rather tragically. As many Hollywood deaths often are, the details surrounding Ken Prather’s demise are foggy and there is much debate in certain circles whether his death really was, as the coroner has declared, a suicide. Karly Prather, Bill’s mother, has turned to various religions trying to cope with her husband’s passing. Her most recent attempt, Kabala, has been able to give her the peace to continue in life and with her craft. Truth be told, however, those who know her best know that she hasn’t shed so much as a tear over her husband’s passing. Her personality in front of the press has painted her as a grieving woman, but among her friends, she is still her eccentric, pompous, larger-than-life self. Being a widow certainly hasn’t hurt her film career or, apparently, her social life.

All these facts led me to believe an interview with Bill Prather would be a unique experience. I was also hoping that it would help my career. I had only been a reporter for a few months. The magazine I work for hasn’t had a whole lot of trust in me, so this was my chance to make it. We were able to speak over the phone a few times before an actual face-to-face interview was secured. I didn’t know what he’d be like, but based on his family and the events I just explained I assumed he’d put on a good face covering a wounded soul. That was not the case. It was very hard to pin down his personality, but he’d switch from arrogant to belligerent. Sometimes he’d forget what we were talking about. Other times, he had an eloquence that I’ve rarely encountered. Needless to say, he continued to pique my interest towards the ensuing interview. I can’t say I learned a whole lot about the real Bill Prather, but the experienced changed me, in a way. Enjoy. 

[I arrive at Bill Prather’s place. The first thing I notice is the security. There are guards all over the estate. I don’t see any guns but the majority of the guards are carrying nightsticks. It’s quite the process to get in; I am searched and have to sign in, but there are no real obstacles. The other obvious thing is that Bill Prather is a minimalist. The walls of the estate are bare, the furniture is sparse, and he just doesn’t seem to have a whole lot of stuff. I think it strange at first, but I remember that he is a product of Hollywood and that’s how some of those people are. I am greeted by Bill in a strange way. His face and his actions are warm, but he doesn’t greet me with a handshake. He hasn’t shaved today. His outfit is simple and he’s wearing slippers. He bows and we are on our way.]

      BP: I want to take you to see my room.

      IT: Alright.

[Down the hallway we walk, exchanging few words. On the left we walk into a room. It’s large, just as I had predicted. It’s a lot like the rest of the estate, extremely clean, not much color, and bare. His bed is made. A short nightstand is sitting next to it, but there’s nothing on top of it. There’s a closet, but it’s closed. I notice a dresser full of drawers as well, but there seems to be a lock on it.]

      IT: Why are your drawers locked?

      BP: I don’t trust anybody but myself. I could turn around for one second and all my stuff would be gone.

      IT: It doesn’t look like you have a whole lot of stuff to begin with.

      BP: I did at one point in my life, but they took it all away.

      IT: Who did? Your parents?

[He doesn’t answer me. He looks out the barred window and sighs deeply. I can tell the answer is yes.]

      IT: You don’t get along too well with your mother do you?

BP: What do you think about my place?

IT: Um, very nice.

BP: Liar. I just wanted to show you how I live. Let’s go.

IT: What?

BP: I just wanted to show you how I live. Let’s go downstairs to the café. I’ve rented it out for a few hours.

[It doesn’t surprise me. The Prather estate is huge. Having a café downstairs makes a lot of sense.]

IT: Why do you live in such a big place? Isn’t it just you here?

BP: I haven’t even thought of living anywhere else. This is home. Everything makes sense here.

[We walk down to the café. I can tell that the café is not his personal café. It’s on the property, but I can see other entrances. It is connected to the Prather estate and also to the outside world. We have to walk through security again to get there. Bill says that he rented it out, but there are other patrons. I can see the look of disgust on his face. He wants to be alone, but he consoles himself by kicking someone out of his favorite table and sitting down. He offers me the seat opposite him.]

      BP: What do you think?

      IT: Of what?

      BP: Of my café?

      IT: It’s great.

      BP: Liar.

[I don’t want to offend him, but this is obviously not his café. But having come from a life of privilege, he probably thinks it is. The café seems very chic. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but it has a certain style to it. None of the chairs seem to match. There’s a TV on in the corner of the room and there is music playing over the loudspeakers. The waiters are dressed in white as is popular these days, but they’re a bit standoffish. The tables are bolted down and there are games available at each one, but it’s obvious that Bill is not interested. My attention is held briefly by a man at the next table. He’s drinking a beverage and playing a game of chess against himself. I can tell that Bill is looking at me so I turn to receive a penetrating stare.]

      IT: You have turned down a lot of interviews recently. Why did you allow me to interview you?

      BP: Actually, I have wanted to do interviews for quite some time, but my agent hasn’t allowed me to. He doesn’t want me to ruin my reputation. I am, as you probably know, the most sought after man in Hollywood.

      IT: Then how did I slip past your agent?

      BP: You never talked to my agent.

[It was true. I had gotten a home number to Bill Prather from a friend and called him direct.]

      IT: Why does your agent think you’ll ruin your reputation?

      BP: I don’t know, but he’s an idiot.

      IT: Why don’t you get somebody new?

      BP: I tried but it’s not that easy. He won’t let me.

      IT: Who? Your agent?

      BP: Where is the darn waiter? Ask me why I’ve lived a life of seclusion?

      IT: Why have y…

      BP: I don’t know. What’s it to you anyway?

      IT: You… ah…

      BP: Listen. I don’t deserve this. And I don’t have to listen to this. You’re a good reporter, right?

      IT: Right.

      BP: Do you know any good lawyers?

      IT: What for?

      BP: What for? Don’t ask me my business?

      IT: Ok. Let’s get back to the interview. Describe what you do with your life these days.

      BP: I’m heavily medicated.

      IT: I see, with what?

      BP: I’m not sure. Whatever they give me. I eat. I sleep, I watch my mom on TV.

      IT: Do you communicate much with your mother?

      BP: I see her about once every six months. We have sort of drifted apart.

      IT: Is it because she didn’t allow you to prosper in their fortune? She did get everything and I knew that you two haven’t been on great terms.

      BP: What do you do sir?

      IT: Me?

[Bill turned to the man playing chess and grabbed him by the collar. The man, obviously dumbfounded, replied that he was an astronaut. Somehow this calmed Bill down and he turned back to me. It became apparent to me that he did not want me asking about his mother.]

      IT: What was it like growing up in Hollywood fame?

      BP: It was great. I’ve seen parts of the world you have only dreamed of. I’ve eaten flapjacks at 6 A.M. with movie stars after a night of heavy partying. I’ve seen more money than you could ever count. I had it all.

      IT: What happened? Why don’t you have it all now?

[Bill again stares out the barred window. I can tell his mind is churning. It’s a little hard to believe, seeing as how random he has been.]

      BP: Do you want to play one of these games?

      IT: You said you had it all. And now?

      BP: Where is that darn waiter?

      IT: Please don’t change the subject.

[Bill gives me a death stare, but after a few seconds, the tension in his face recedes and he reluctantly agrees internally to answer my question.]

      BP: Ok, here it is. Growing up in the shadow of my parents was difficult. I certainly did have flapjacks at 6 A.M. with movie stars, but most of them had earned their fame, or at least that’s how they saw it. To them, I hadn’t earned anything. I was given everything and I was seen as an outsider. My parents were more concerned with fitting in with their Hollywood friends that they also saw me as an outsider. They started spending less and less time with me. I tried to break in. Have you seen the pilot for the show Pipe Dreams?

      IT: No.

      BP: Don’t. I think it’s amazing, but everyone else thinks it sucks. That was my one lame attempt at making a name for myself. After that colossal failure I gave up. Not much perseverance in this guy you see in front of you. But at least I have my looks. Did I ever tell you about my modeling career?

      IT: You never had a modeling career.

      BP: Yeah, so. What’s it to you anyway?

      IT: Come on, what happened with you after the pilot didn’t work out?

      BP: I medicated heavily. Drugs, alcohol, you name it. I treated people like slime and that made me feel better.

      IT: Are you still involved in that stuff?

      BP: Maybe, I’m not quite sure.

      IT: Tell me more about your parents.

      BP: They…

      IT: They what?

      BP: Like I said, they started spending less and less time with me. Occasionally they’d drop me off and leave me somewhere for days. Sometimes months. They always gave me some crap like they were doing it for my own good. I knew what was going on. They wanted to leave the extra baggage behind so that they could live life to the fullest without any restrictions. Eventually, they bought this place, we moved in, and they’ve never taken me anywhere since. They’d come back every month at first, then every other month. Finally every six months. They seemed really concerned about me and then they’d leave again. They exhibited very strange behavior, but these Hollywood types are all the same.

IT: Didn’t you ever try to leave?

BP: Oh yes. I did leave once. I spent my time basking in the Hollywood scene for a while, hit up some clubs, had a great time. I honestly don’t remember a whole bunch about it, if you know what I mean. I’ve tried again since but every time I tried to leave something held me back. I tried the doors, but my parents locked them. I tried to use the windows but my parents put bars on them. A few times I would blackout and find myself back in my room with a wild headache. My parents have made sure that I’m a prisoner in my own home. Eventually I resigned myself to a life of solitude, here on the estate. It’s not too bad. I eat and drink well and I have no worries about money.

      IT: Hmmm…

      BP: But they’re great people. I can’t wait until they come back home again.

      IT: Um… so you haven’t heard…

      BP: Haven’t heard what?

 [Finally one of the servers approaches us. He’s a big man dressed all in white. His nametag says Tony, but I can’t believe it. He looks like a Duane.]

Server: Alright gentlemen. Showtime is over. Time to take your medicine.

BP: Die you hideous beast!

IT: You’ll never take me alive!

[Bill and I run for the door but it’s locked. At this point the server grabs me. I’m stunned at first and I try to fight back, but it’s difficult to fight with my arms trapped in my jacket.]

The Wrong Place

     Benjamin Clive was not the most well liked man. The fact that he was a hitman didn’t help. That’s not to say he ever killed anyone, he hadn’t. But that was indeed his profession. In fact, Clive was a bit squeamish around blood. When I say a bit squeamish, I mean petrified. That was obvious to him during his first month in pre-med.

            Clive had had great hopes of becoming a doctor. It was really the money that drew his attention. Clive was not, how you say, a moral man. He didn’t care about healing or helping people, but he heard about how much money doctors made and he was hooked… for a moment. He enrolled in pre-med at a popular University and made it through the first week. He never saw a cadaver. He never had to see an operation. He made the mistake of buying a text book and opening it. The detailed pictures were all he could handle. The picture that actually caused him to pass out was of a man cut in half from an automobile accident. He came to and realized, quite wisely, that he was in the wrong place. He checked the introductory salaries of each of the other majors that the university offered, but the salaries were just way too low, so he dropped out entirely and figured he’d just join the family business.

            His father, Maurice Clive was a hitman. Before he botched a job and was killed himself, Maurice had done over 40 jobs. He was nicknamed “the bull.” Not for his ferocity so much as for his huge nostrils. It was true. They’d make you do a double-take. It was common knowledge that he looked more like a hog than a bull, but that’s not the nickname you give a hitman. One guy suggested they call him “the hog.” One guy. It never happened again. That one guy wasn’t killed, mind you. He moved out of state and lives with his wife and daughter in the mountains of Colorado. He’s very happy. But, somebody more important suggested “the bull” and that’s what stuck. The Bull was fairly well respected in the business, but in the end his sloppiness did him in. Quite literally, he slipped and fell on some spaghetti sauce that he had spilled earlier. He fell down on his gun which he had stuffed down his pants. The gun went off and the bullet severed an artery in his leg, killing him a few minutes later.

            Now I know what you’re asking. “I thought he botched a job. How could he slip on his own spaghetti sauce?” It’s a fair question. He was in his own house and the job he botched was his wife. There was a hit put out on his wife. She was a prosecuting attorney who put someone very important in jail. Maurice figured she’d be dead anyway, so he might as well collect the money for it. He was wrong. During the next week, new evidence came to light, the sentence was overturned and the hit was revoked.

            Benjamin Clive’s grandfather was a hitman as well. Theodore Clive was known as “little teddy.” The name doesn’t instill fear into people and neither did he. Standing 7 feet tall and weighing 260 pounds might give most people an imposing presence, but “little teddy” stood 5’7” on stilts and weighed 100 pounds sopping wet. I guess he was originally recruited because he wouldn’t be suspected. That worked to his advantage a few times. It was not loading his gun that was his major downfall. He got away with it twice. He beat one guy to death with the other end and the other time a woman jumped out a window on her own volition. He pulled the trigger at the same time she jumped and about the time she figured out he had no bullets, it was too late. Well, you live and learn. Sometimes the opposite is true too. 

            After that, little teddy tried to retire. Figuring that he had gotten away with stupidity two too many times he didn’t want to risk another mistake. The bosses knew they had made a mistake with him. They didn’t just let their investment retire however. He was made into a bartender and he makes the greatest boilermakers this side of the Mississippi. (The bosses don’t know what’s in them.) Unfortunately, bartending proved to be more dangerous than being a hitman. After an evening at his bar, a woman died. Thinking that the barkeep had poisoned her, her husband came back and shot him. The next day the woman woke up with an extremely bad headache to find out that her husband would be spending the rest of his life in jail.

            So, Benjamin Clive decided to get into the family business. As I said earlier, he hadn’t killed anyone. He had only had three jobs and failed every time. The bosses kept him around because there were very high stakes bets being placed on whether Clive would succeed or not. It should be obvious by now that Benjamin Clive was a bit off. He was incredibly expendable and someone at the top was making huge gains on his failure so he was kept on payroll. His salary was not very great, but the Clives had never asked how much money other hitmen were making and thus didn’t know what they were missing out on. Also, the bosses were in the habit of sending another cleaner after him to finish the job. The hit was made, the boss was paid, and everyone made out in the end.

            Clive’s first job was to off a stubborn convenient store owner. The owner had refused to give in to the bosses. I feel like I have to explain something here. The bosses aren’t the mafia. They want to be. They’re just a few influential old timers that had decided that it would be profitable for them to get into the organized crime business. It’s not incredibly organized, but it’s crime nonetheless. There’s enough money in it and it’s better than drying up in some retirement community. At least, that was their opinion. If you ask me though, the opportunities in today’s retirement communities are quite extraordinary. My grandfather hits the links about everyday and my grandmother teaches a course in ceramics. What more could you want?

            So this convenient store owner refused to pay up and the hit was given to Clive. He decided that a good stabbing would be the way to go. You have to understand that this was a guy who had failed in everything he had ever done. He knew about his penchant for fainting at the sight of blood, but he figured the adrenaline would keep him alert and it would be a good way for him to conquer his fear. Even though a pistol was given to him by the company, he went out and spent half a week’s pay on a very impressive looking knife. He wanted to make a name for himself and figured that would be the way to do it. So on a Tuesday evening just after closing time, he stumbled into the convenient store. The owner told him that they were closed, but Clive expressed the desire to use the bathroom. He was allowed to go and made his way for the door. He never went in, but instead waited for the owner to turn his back. Clive then screamed and reached for his knife. This plan not only didn’t work but was painfully idiotic. The owner obviously heard him scream and turned around to see Clive coming from the bathroom which was at the other end of the store. Yes, in fact the exact opposite corner of the store. A turtle would have had the time to defend himself. The other problem was that Clive had shoved his knife into its pouch and snapped it secure. To his dismay, he couldn’t unsnap it. He was fumbling with the pouch as he ran, screaming, to the opposite end of the store to stab the owner, whose shotgun was staring Clive right in the face. The owner had the time to consider whether he should shoot him or not. The whole ordeal seemed so surreal for the store owner, who, rightly so, figured Clive to be no threat and just waited for Clive to get closer and jacked him across the mouth with the business end of the shotgun. Clive gasped, felt his lip, saw his own blood, and woke up some time later, all bandaged up in a comfortable sofa. He asked the first person he saw whether he had finished the job. What happened was that the store owner saw Clive unconscious, called the cops, and was then shot in the head by Clive’s backup. The cops arrived to find the store empty, with nothing missing, except the entire rack of beef jerky.

            Clive’s second job was a district attorney. She had worked hard to imprison a nephew of one of the bosses who, against better judgment, decided to have her taken out. He was drunk and in one of those moods. Clive overheard his disgust and volunteered for the job. The boss was delighted and gave it to him. Clive decided that a good strangling was in order. He was well aware of his failure the first time, but wasn’t willing to give up on himself. Say what you want about him, he had a lot of confidence in himself. Yes, he was delusional. He didn’t want to resign himself to the pistol just yet. Creativity was a way to get more jobs and more money.

            The D.A. was married, but Clive waited for her to travel out of town on business to do the job. Her hotel was well publicized and Clive simply waited for the concierge to leave to check the computer for her room number. 318. He waited until he knew she would be asleep and then went upstairs to do it. He paced the hall for a while, tried opening the door with a credit card, and seeing how he didn’t know how to pick locks, gave up. Knowing he’d be ridiculed upon his return, figured he couldn’t give up. So he walked up to the door and knocked. After a few seconds the D.A. walked up to the door and asked who was there. Stunned, Clive declared himself to be room service. You’d have to assume that this wouldn’t work, and it shouldn’t have. But as luck would have it, the D.A. had just ordered room service. It was only a little after ten o’clock, but since Clive was usually in bed by then he assumed everyone else would be as well. There never was a method to his madness. Sometimes you just get lucky.

            She recognized something was amiss immediately, but Clive forced himself into the room. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the cord. The D.A. did not scream. She was too busy thumping him in the stomach and the mouth with her fists. What Clive didn’t know was that this D.A. had taken a self defense course. What the D.A. didn’t know was that the self defense class she took at her local Y.M.C.A. was taught by a first offense insurance fraud who was serving her community service. She knew nothing about self defense and her pupil didn’t either. After pushing the D.A. to the ground, Clive pounced on her and wrapped the cord around her neck. It was much easier than he had originally thought and took a closer look to see his work. Unfortunately for him, the cord had pierced her skin and she was bleeding, on the cord, on his hands, and on the ground. The next thing he knew he was waking up on a comfortable sofa. Again, he asked whether he had finished the job. His backup arrived to the D.A. pummeling Clive with kicks to the midsection. The next day, the maids came to clean an empty room, missing all the free soaps and shampoos.

            Still shockingly undeterred, Clive accepted another job to take care of a local banker, James Karney. He had also refused to pay a boss, but instead of simply refusing, he revoked his account and insulted him in front of another client. The one thing you shouldn’t do to a boss is insult one. Although I’m sure you figured out by now that they had people hit for far less. This banker lived in a loft apartment in the center of town. Clive could have done the job at the bank. It might have been easier, but since Clive had been thinking about moving into a loft apartment, he decided it mould be best to check it out, see if there was enough room. It was apparent to him that he would use his pistol this time. He had had enough failure. So, on a Wednesday night, he walked into the apartment complex as a tenant was walking out. He walked up to Karney’s apartment and went inside.

How he got in was interesting. There are a couple of theories about that. I heard once that he kicked the door down. Or I heard that he got lucky opening the door with a credit card. Another is that he knocked on the door again, claiming to be the pizza guy. Karney, who had just ordered a pizza, opened the door cheerfully. What really happened, however, it that finding the door locked and out of any ideas, Clive shot the door down. He first shot the handle. It worked, but the door was dead bolted too. He shot the dead bolt and the door swung open. He saw his target, panicked, running for the window. It was at this point that Clive decided to ditch the gun idea and just push Karney to his demise. That would be a whole lot more creative and even could be construed as a suicide. Karney was heading for the fire exit, but as he was on the landing, was seized by his assailant. Clive, despite his many shortcomings, was surprisingly quick and light on his feet. He grabbed the target and forced him against the railing. He could see the sweat rolling down his face and could almost feel his triumph even before the deed was done. Clive lifted him and tossed him over the railing. Karney, in desperation, grabbed Clive, pulling him over the railing as well. Both hung on, fearing for their lives. Clive could feel his hands slipping, so in a last ditch effort, he swung himself and released the rail, grabbing onto his target's waist. There was nothing Karney could do. He couldn’t hold on and he fell.

So there was Benjamin Clive, falling through the air, completely unaware of his impending doom. He was watching this banker, screaming, arms wailing, and he was thinking to himself. “I finally did it. I’m a hitman.”

And that was it. Clive snapped his neck and died on the concrete. At this point you probably remember me saying that he hadn’t killed anyone. He hadn’t. The banker’s apartment was only two stories up. He hobbled away, sore but alive. Clive’s backup visited him two weeks later. I heard he emptied out his fridge.