So There's This Guy
So there’s this guy, he wants to put a hit out on his wife, something about a hair-dryer and a sheep-shearer and not wanting to pay alimony, but who gives a fuck? It ain’t part of the story.
He’s sitting in a bar and starts the usual drunken BS with some stranger. and a few drinks and a load o’ bar snacks later the stranger tells him about a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, whatever, who does things for sums of money and hands him a phone number.
So the next day he picks up the phone, dials ‘M’ for murder and ‘Baam!’… the deal's done. He’s told the hit-man he’ll be outta town for the weekend on a planned but bogus business trip and that his wife is going to be all alone in their apartment and he wants her iced by the time he gets back.
So anyway, this fella, the hit-man, he’s one huge mother-fucker. He’s like - like - like - I dunno what the fuck he’s like 300lbs, greasy, hairy, B.O. smelling, behemoth. Suffice it to say this guy was huge. He dresses like the fucking Men in Black! You know, secret government agency. Have you ever seen a flying saucer? Let me tell you something pal, if you ever see a UFO, don’t even fart in its’ direction.
Picture the scene - it’s 27 October 1984, Park Central. At 0340hrs, Greenwich Mean Time, I did NOT see this 'disk-shaped' object, parked about 100ft in the air. I did NOT see this - this thing - this thing do 90 fucking degree turns at like the fucking speed of light. What I in-fact saw was a weather balloon. A fucking weather balloon? Uh, uh, I don’t think so - tell that shit to the fucking birds!
Where was I? Oh yeah. The big guy gets into his car, drives down 45th and pulls up outside this like - I dunno, like a gazillion fucking floor high storey building. He’s in the building; he tells the girl at the counter that he wants the suite and floor number of Mr and Mrs John Does’ apartment. Don’t ask me why she gave it to him, maybe he was the fat pizza delivery boy. Where’s the fucking pizza I know, but anyway -
The suite was number 2329. I mean this was high. This was so high. This must have been so fucking high up. So Mr Pizza Delivery Boy goes to the elevator door and would you believe the fucking thing is broken? There are two men in blue boiler suits working on it. But he ain’t perturbed, oh no! He turns to the girl at the counter and says, "Honey, where’s the stairs in this joint?" Now she’s thinking that this fat bastard ain’t gonna make it up those stairs so she says, "Sir, you sure you wanna walk all the way up them stairs?", but she points him in the direction anyway.
So this 500lbs man is climbing up these stairs that must have at least fifty stairs a flight and he’s taking them three at a time. This guy, he’s like the ‘Energiser Bunny’ okay, he just keeps on going. Now he must be at least half way by now and he’s not too hot, so he stops to take a breather. An hour later, he gets to his floor and he’s fucked! So he takes another rest and looks around. To his left is the door to the apartment and to the right is the elevator that leads to the lobby that is currently out of order.
Five minutes later, he goes up to his door, pulls out his gun, checks the clip - where’s the fucking clip? The dumb schmuck has left it halfway down the stairs when he absent-mindedly took out his gun and checked it whilst he took that breather. So now, he’s got to go get it.
Another hour later he arrives back at the door and he’s really fucked. He’s sweating buckets, his clothes are soaked and he’s having real trouble breathing, basically he’s even less of a pretty sight and he’s gotta kill someone which always makes his heart rate go through the roof!
He drags his feet to the door, pulls out his gun, his lungs are on fire now and he’s starting to get pins and needles in his left arm from all the exertion. He’s about to knock on the door when "Ding!" The engineers have fixed the broken elevator behind him, it arrives at the floor and the sudden shock from the noise and all the effort of those stairs gives him a heart attack and he keels over. The fat fuck dies right there on the doorstep.
Anyway the guy comes home from his trip expecting his wife to be dead, and walks right into the long arms of the law. His wife gets all his money, moves to Hawaii where she lives like a queen and he gets to spend the next twenty-five years being someone’s bitch in the state pen.
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