"Is this John The Butcher?"
John: "No you've got the wrong number. This is James, his brother. Happens all the time."
"Well, James, can you get my message through to your brother for me?"
"We don't really see each other anymore. For all I know, he could be in Cuba right now."
"I'm sure he'll get the message one way or another. Tell him I've got a job for him. A one man operation. Too risky for more. There's alotta cash involved. Two million dollars to be exact. The name's Charles Birdly. That's all he needs to know. He'll know what to do."
"Well in that case, I'm sure he'll manage."
"Music to my ears. The money will be transferred as soon as Birdly's gone. Send your brother my regards, and that I wish him a good hunt."
***
John made alotta dough from assassinations. Politicians, actors, singers, agents, witnesses, cheating wives and husbands, rape victims who didn't stay quite about it, people who knew too much, any rich asshole who was willing to pay high for a job well done knew who was the best man to call, John The Butcher.
"What are you doing in my hou—
John: "Shhhhhh... just shut up and go to sleep."
Afterall, he wasn't the FBI's most wanted for no reason.
He squished Birdly's head with a chair.
The same chair that was touched by one of Birdly's bodyguards in an attempt to defend himself from John.
Later on the police decided that a fight had broken down between Birdly's men in his mansion, which caused him to get killed by his own bodyguard.
John had too much money to spend, and the numbers kept growing.
But he wasn't exactly... happy, to say the least.