Your Pain, My Pleasure
Introduction
Stab. Tear. Stab. Fucking rip your skin right open.
Pour yourself out on the kitchen floor.
Through his chest with a blade sharp enough to cut concrete, he would be gone. Never mind the mess, so long as he would be out of his misery and out of his suffering. He would no longer breathe the deadly oxygen that’s keeping him alive, killing him at the same time. He wouldn’t have to witness first hand the terror that rips through society and kills off everyone anyway.
***
One quick stab. Just one, and that’s all it would take. It’s easier said then done. You just can’t ask anyone to rip a blade through your rib cage, it’s a serious crime to commit, and not even amazing bulks of money would persuade someone to sink to such levels to murder the suicidal.
Except me.
If you asked me to cut your head off, I probably fucking would, but for a price. If you asked me to slice your wrist, snapping each one of your inky little veins so they curl into them selves like a salted slug, I would. Ask me to hang your scrawny neck from your ceiling fan, well it would be my goddamn pleasure. Hell, I'd even kick over the chair for you.
You see, I don't just kill anybody. I don't kill the innocent. I kill the people that want to die. The people that take up precious space here on Earth sitting around waiting to die. I do them a fucking favor.
You gotta want life to be worthy of it.
Asphyxiation, Russian Omelet, Full Nelson, Brain Buster, sufficient blow to the Philtrum. Different names, same outcome. Warning: may cause death. I'll give a good whack to your solar plexus, if you're lucky.
Tell me: “Slip me a few of these after I fall asleep. Just enough so I go under. Slip me just enough, take the rest with you.” Well, why don't you slip me a couple hundred in cash and we'll call it a deal.
Would you like some Cyanide with that wine?
You might think I'm a killer, but you are wrong. I am a Healer. I heal people of their pains, put them out of their misery and troubles. I am the enabler that allows them to pass on to that more restful place, where they can sleep forever. Whatever I do to somebody, I do it with there consent. No questions, no surprises. Quick and dirty supposed suicide. I'm like people's own personal hit man, all to themselves. Even when they someone reaches their lowest point, they are still greedy.
You gotta want life to be worthy of it.
It's 1 in the morning and I'm sitting outside this guy's house.
“Can you kill me?” He asked me, three days ago in the middle of a drug induced panic.
“What are you willing to give me?” I questioned.
“Dude, I'm gonna let you kill me! What fucking else do you want?” Poor boy. He was hysterical. I'm wondering if he even remembers our conversation.
“Give me your address. We'll talk later,” I said, and after he raddled it off I dropped the phone back on the receiver.
I don't like getting technical with the living-incompetent. The basics are fine with me: Twenty five years old, depressed, suicidal. Wants to die but is too much of a pansy to do it himself.
That's where I come in.
Gerard, last name isn't important. 31 years old, sadist, self diagnosed healer, murderer of the suicidal.
Pour yourself out on the kitchen floor.
Through his chest with a blade sharp enough to cut concrete, he would be gone. Never mind the mess, so long as he would be out of his misery and out of his suffering. He would no longer breathe the deadly oxygen that’s keeping him alive, killing him at the same time. He wouldn’t have to witness first hand the terror that rips through society and kills off everyone anyway.
***
One quick stab. Just one, and that’s all it would take. It’s easier said then done. You just can’t ask anyone to rip a blade through your rib cage, it’s a serious crime to commit, and not even amazing bulks of money would persuade someone to sink to such levels to murder the suicidal.
Except me.
If you asked me to cut your head off, I probably fucking would, but for a price. If you asked me to slice your wrist, snapping each one of your inky little veins so they curl into them selves like a salted slug, I would. Ask me to hang your scrawny neck from your ceiling fan, well it would be my goddamn pleasure. Hell, I'd even kick over the chair for you.
You see, I don't just kill anybody. I don't kill the innocent. I kill the people that want to die. The people that take up precious space here on Earth sitting around waiting to die. I do them a fucking favor.
You gotta want life to be worthy of it.
Asphyxiation, Russian Omelet, Full Nelson, Brain Buster, sufficient blow to the Philtrum. Different names, same outcome. Warning: may cause death. I'll give a good whack to your solar plexus, if you're lucky.
Tell me: “Slip me a few of these after I fall asleep. Just enough so I go under. Slip me just enough, take the rest with you.” Well, why don't you slip me a couple hundred in cash and we'll call it a deal.
Would you like some Cyanide with that wine?
You might think I'm a killer, but you are wrong. I am a Healer. I heal people of their pains, put them out of their misery and troubles. I am the enabler that allows them to pass on to that more restful place, where they can sleep forever. Whatever I do to somebody, I do it with there consent. No questions, no surprises. Quick and dirty supposed suicide. I'm like people's own personal hit man, all to themselves. Even when they someone reaches their lowest point, they are still greedy.
You gotta want life to be worthy of it.
It's 1 in the morning and I'm sitting outside this guy's house.
“Can you kill me?” He asked me, three days ago in the middle of a drug induced panic.
“What are you willing to give me?” I questioned.
“Dude, I'm gonna let you kill me! What fucking else do you want?” Poor boy. He was hysterical. I'm wondering if he even remembers our conversation.
“Give me your address. We'll talk later,” I said, and after he raddled it off I dropped the phone back on the receiver.
I don't like getting technical with the living-incompetent. The basics are fine with me: Twenty five years old, depressed, suicidal. Wants to die but is too much of a pansy to do it himself.
That's where I come in.
Gerard, last name isn't important. 31 years old, sadist, self diagnosed healer, murderer of the suicidal.