If quarter-life crises are good for anything, it’s probably that they make one consider a wider variety of paths in life. Freaking out about twenty plus years spent doing stupid things like seeing if you can drink a half gallon of French Vanilla coffee creamer in a day (you cannot), or nearly losing your job over loudly joking around about having a heroin problem at work (you should not), can do that to you. So your mind wanders, considering all manner of career directions that someone with a satisfactory station in life wouldn’t.
Which is why I might become a hired assassin.
It kind of makes sense for me, as I’ve never really been a people person, so shooting people in the face should come easily. And the hermetic lifestyle of a professional hitman isn’t anything that would get in the way – I never leave the house anyway, it’d might as well be because I would be potentially be arrested or murdered by one of my enemies. Also it’s not like I’d be operating out of my own house to begin with – big shot assassins generally travel the world, hopping from country to country busting skulls. There’s only so many skulls to be busted in this neighborhood.
Furthermore, think I could bring a more theatrical element to assassinations. Nobody wants to witness some dope just hopping out from a crowd to gun a guy down, they’d fall asleep right there. Consider this far more interesting situation:
The Mayor (any mayor) is giving a big speech outside the town hall. The public cheers as he addresses the various issues mayors are all about these days – gay abortions and such. Then a shot rings out and The Mayor goes down, bloody and dead. People turn to see a man on the top story of the building across the street, holding what appears to be a rifle. Quickly the building is rushed by law enforcement officers and the man is cornered on the roof. But as they approach his unmoving figure, they realize – that’s The Mayor! And he’s dead up here too!
A note is appended to his corpse, which is propped up by a bunch of sticks, some of which are placed in his hands to resemble a gun. The note reads, “Hello Police. You have been tricked by me, a very clever assassin who actually killed the mayor in his home last night, and is at this moment taking off his Mayor mask, wiping off loads of fake blood and escaping from you, sight unseen. I hope you liked my speech!” Just as everyone’s mind is getting blown, I’m escaping from the back of the coroner’s wagon having committed the perfect crime, which also happens to be the most awesome crime. Damn I’m good.
So that just about clinches it. Just describing how life would be as the world’s greatest assassin has me very sure of myself, which these days is a feeling that’s all too rare. Hell, I may even give that huge bottle of coffee creamer another go.
