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.
