Historians often argue that alcohol makes everything better. From the farthest reach of the Horsehead Nebulax to the smallest corner of the Sol System, every achievement for the betterment of society has had at least a bottle of fermented spirits and a sharp mind to make even the most stupid of ideas possible.
Alexander the Great conquered most of the known world fueled only by wine and a desire to put his name in random cities to confuse tourists and cartographers alike.
Y'rth'kol the Gorgalin sailed the Seven Systems in search of the best Margarita Recipe, inadvertently creating a trade route between the Allidon System and the Calamari Empire. Earth's, he said in his memoirs, had the second-best Margarita recipe, but sadly, it lacked pain secretions from a Calamari infant to give it the right punch.
Sociologists, in their infinite quest to throw Historians under the bus, would argue that alcohol makes everything worse.
They would often cite that Alexander's conquest created a crime-riddled, fragile kingdom that regressed to more animalistic warfare as a response to its conquest, and that the Calamari people didn't quite approve of their children being tortured for Margarita-related reasons, triggering a pan-galactic war that affected billions of lives.
After all, statistically speaking, the most popular last words are "hold my beer."
Even so, Sociologists and Historians have conceded a few points to each other, mostly in the interest of not stabbing each other in the back during parties.
Sociologist conceded that some good might come from alcohol, citing that the Founding Fathers wrote the Declaration of Independence while blind drunk. Historians, on the other hand, have conceded that alcohol might play a foul hand in some affairs, citing examples like the Communist revolution, or if a one-eyed man with no hair, seven fingers and scars on his head suddenly appears in front of you for a job interview.
Peter Katz didn't care enough about sociology or history to know what to do when a one-eyed man with no hair, seven fingers and scars on his head suddenly appeared in from of him. So he invited him in for a drink.
They sat on the same booth as before, with Peter and James Truman-Conelly on one side and the man on the other. They ordered a round of beers except the man, who ordered a bottle of Grappa and a syringe to inject it directly into his veins.
"Well," said James Truman-Conelly as he nursed a beer, "let's begin. Can you please tell us your name?"
The man tapped his vein and gave himself a shot of Grappa. His body shuddered and shivered, making him howl like a wolf. Every dog in a square mile began to howl alongside him.
"The name of Massimo am Massimo Forcibi, also known as the Sudden Death, also known as Johnny the Wrench, also known as the Breaker of Dawn in World of Warcraft. You call Massimo if want," said the man with a thick accent that fell somewhere between Italian and Russian.
Massimo was, to use the clinical term, a shit-show. He didn't have hair, or eyebrows, or even eye-lashes—not that he needed that many since he only had one green eye, with a scar running through where the other eye should be. Scars ran through his bald skull and disappeared down the collar of his shirt.
He only had three fingers on his left hand and missed a thumb off his right hand. For some reason, he smelled like overripe tomatoes.
Peter's gut told him not to trust such man, but there was something about his perfectly white smile and the affable, sing-song way he talked. Something charming. He was not the best judge of character.
"Before we go any further," said Peter, "we wanna ask you a few questions."
"Massimo love the question!" said Massimo. "Question make the advance of plot and provide backstory, yes?"
"Funny you should mention it," said Peter as he sipped his beer. "Tell us a bit about you. You seem like a worldly man."
"Massimo is say tale of Massimo. Very sad and tragic. Make tears in babies. Salty as Mediterranean."
"The abridged version," said James Truman-Conelly.
"Will keep word count low," said Massimo. "Massimo born to Yugoslavian mother and Father of the India. They make the death in tragic fire. Korean barbecue that went the bad. Delicious ribs, though."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said James Truman-Conelly. "I lost my parents, too."
"Really?" said Massimo. "Do they also tasted deliciously sweet?"
James Truman-Conelly went pale.
"Moving on," said Peter. "How did you become an assassin?"
"They put Massimo on nun school, for given educating. It was silly, Massimo am no woman. Couldn't be nun. But to nun school Massimo went. All boy school."
"So it was like a Catholic school, then," said Peter. "Like those all boy schools you see in the movies."
"No, no, no, no, no," said Massimo, preparing another syringe full of Grappa. "It was school to make nun. All boy nun, transvestite ones. Very progressive."
As if to make a point, Massimo took out a rosary from his pocket. It was made of human teeth.
"Massimo do the create this," he said. "Remembers me to be humble."
"A religious killer," said James Truman-Conelly.
"Every man needs compass made of moral," added Massimo. "Anyway. When mother superior beat poops of Massimo with ruler for not obeying, Massimo got tired. Shoved ruler down throat. Very cathartic."
Peter chugged his beer in one go, signaling a waiter for a refill. "I suppose that didn't sit well with the other nuns."
"Don't say Massimo about it," said Massimo, offering James Truman-Conelly a syringe. He declined. Massimo continued.
"Massimo go on run for decades, became master of disguise. Costumes so good, not even Interpol found. Disguised as corgi for England Queen for years. Tasty food, but shit on lawn. Massimo decided to become assassin. Burned fingerprints and shaved all hair, like Voldemort. He smart. No hair, no Polyjuice potion."
"On the subject of killing," said Peter. "How many have you killed?"
Massimo gave himself another shot, but it didn't have the same punch. He asked a waiter for some ranch dressing, and after mixing it with some more Grappa, he took his third shot of the night. "Oh, Massimo lost count after first hundred."
"And pray tell," said James Truman-Conelly, "what is your M.O?"
"Eh, Massimo am artist. Different methods. Custom job. If client has preference, Massimo does an accommodate. One time, target is owner of ice rink. Massimo run over him with a Zamboni. Painted initials with blood on ice. Sell to MoMA for good price. Summer exhibit."
"Could you give me a few minutes to confer with my partner?" said Peter. "Thanks."
Peter began whispering to James Truman-Conelly, making sure Massimo couldn't hear them.
"I say we go for this guy," said Peter.
"Are you mental?" retorted James Truman-Conelly. "The guy's a maniac. He has praying beads made out of teeth! Praying teeth!"
"Look, we're not looking for someone to go out on a date here. We're looking for a professional. And he's one."
"I suppose so," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "It's your funeral."
"Let's hope so," said Peter. "Okay!" he added, speaking at a normal volume this time, "I just spoke with my associate, and we have decided that we like you."
"Whoa, down with the slow," said Massimo. "We only met now. Buy me drink and Massimo will think about relationship."
"He means we like you for the job," said James Truman-Conelly.
"Massimo am the joy!" said Massimo. He took out a piece of paper from a satchel by his side and gave it to Peter with a shining and sincere smile. "These are prices Massimo price for giving death. Very organized."
There were different amount of money reflected on that piece of paper, alongside different types of assassination techniques and condition.
"Let's give example," said Massimo. "If client want executive person to be death by Massimo, it's $30.000. If client want to make it accident, it's $2.500 more. If target too long from Massimo's house, Massimo charges Lyft ride. No Über. Has bad experience."
"Okay," said Peter. "Let's say we wanna kill an unimportant person. Young man, about thirty-five years old."
"Giving death to random person is cheapest. Only $5.000. Is man strong? Can punch Massimo?"
"He will not pose a threat," said James Truman-Conelly, still nursing his beer.
"Are man one on the handicapped?" asked Massimo. "Massimo prices more for handicapped."
"No, Massimo. He's not," said Peter. "The one we want you to kill is me."
Massimo stared at him with his one good eye for a second, expecting to be let in on the joke. When seeing that neither Peter nor James Truman-Conelly budged, he reacted.
"No, no, no, no, no," said Massimo. "Massimo never give death to client. Massimo doesn't get money. Bad for business."
Peter drank the rest of his beer and as if waiting, the waiter brought him a new one. "Conelly here will make sure you get paid. We have drafted a contract to assure your payment."
James Truman-Conelly took out a document from a binder and presented it to Massimo. "You will find that your money will be given by me after I execute Peter's state. We're prepared to pay half of it now, and half after the deed is done. The contract, of course, cannot be revoked by any party. You will be obligated to kill Mr. Katz and he cannot fire you under any circumstances."
Massimo took a glancing look at the document, too embarrassed to tell them he couldn't read English. "Looks good. Very pretty. Massimo takes job."
"Excellent!" exclaimed Peter. "Truly excellent."
"Massimo will price you friends discount. $4.500. Very cheap. Massimo like you."
"I think we can arrange that," said Peter.
James Truman-Conelly began scribbling a few notes on the contract, rearing twice to make sure he didn't commit any mistake. "Okay, that will be $4.500 dollars, half now, half after execution."
"Good!" yelled Massimo, taking out a gun from underneath the table. "You are given death now!"
"No!" yelled both Peter and James Truman-Conelly in unison.
"But Massimo has death to give to you!"
"First!" said James Truman-Conelly, "you haven't signed the contract, yet!"
Massimo slapped his head repeatedly with the hand that held the gun. Every hit resounded with a hollow thud.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Massimo muttered after every strike. "Massimo almost don't get money!"
"...and second," added Peter "we have a few conditions."
"Say them," said Massimo, preparing another syringe.
"I don't wanna know where or when you will kill me," said Peter. "You have until next month to kill me. You can choose where and how. Just...not now."
"Massimo won't give you death today," he said. "But Massimo free for giving it how Massimo wants?"
Peter leaned back on his chair and beckoned the waiter. "Yes, you're free to choose. But I do have to ask you to make it as painless as you can."
With a spring on his feet, Massimo jumped from his seat and began to dance by himself. "Massimo accepts!" he yelled.
"We need you to sign the contract," added James Truman-Conelly. "Your signature on the dotted lines and you initials on the tabs."
"Waiter!" said Peter. "Keep the booze coming. We're celebrating a funeral!"
As the night went on and the empty glasses piled on, both Peter and Massimo were totally wasted, singing ABBA songs and telling macabre stories from their lives. Peter with his outlandish lawsuits, and Massimo with his most hilarious kills.
James Truman-Conelly, however, was dry as a bone, still nursing that first beer he bought.
He was waiting.
"And Massimo said: Massimo know who Massimo is, and what is you? Then Massimo shot him on face. Hilarious!"
Peter was already drunk out of his mind. "Yes," he said. "Funny. I'm gonna...yeah," said Peter before passing out.
"No go," said Massimo, slapping Peter in the face repeatedly with no avail. "Peter lightweight!"
James Truman-Conelly poked Peter in the face a few times. He was breathing, but unconscious. It was time to act.
"He's had enough," said James Truman-Conelly. "No more booze for you lot."
"Jee-weez, buzzkill much?" said Massimo. "But Massimo know Truman says truth. No more booze."
James Truman-Conelly stood up from his seat and sat right next to Massimo, making him scoot away a little.
"You're very hot, like furnace," said Massimo. "Pre-cooked ham."
James Truman-Conelly leaned closer to Massimo, but never taking his eyes off Peter. "Look," he whispered, "how much money will it take for you to expedite Peter's death?"
"You use many words Massimo doesn't get," said Massimo. "Also, breath smells funny, like stale borscht."
"I'm saying, how much money do you want for you to kill Peter faster?"
"How faster?" asked Massimo.
"Tomorrow," said James Truman-Conelly. "Day after that at most."
"Why fat man want Peter to be give death tomorrow?"
To talk about James Truman-Conelly, Esq, is to talk about a series of poor life choices paired with incredible luck.
He was sold by his parents to a cult, only for that cult to give him an education he would otherwise never have.
He gets addicted to scratch-and-sniff stickers, only to find solace in fast food. He gets married to a hamburger after winning a landmark case in the supreme court. He gets bankrupt thanks to said landmark case, only to land an exclusive book deal for his story.
He gets to represent the ASW, a client that can barely pay them, only to be presented with the opportunity for the biggest job of his life.
A con job.
You see, James Truman-Conelly was tired of being the butt of the joke. A goodie-two-shoes lawyer's pay is often none. When he got his first client with ASW, he discovered a little tidbit: suicidal people don't usually bother with reading. He would present a will with outlandish additions, like donating half of their money to Scientology, and they will just sign it.
That's where he realized he could make a few bucks from it. At first, he would only divert some of the cash to him. A couple thousand, even. But he wanted more.
Over the years, he became more and bolder, to the point where he would leave all of their money and assets to him. James Truman-Conelly would then use the money to buy epic amounts of food and miscellaneous items. But he was getting tired of the endless circle of ripping people off, spending all of their money, and repeating. He wanted out, but after one last job.
At that moment, Peter literally fell on top of him like a gift from Sobek(May his teeth stay sharp to destroy our enemies.)
It was simple, really. Be meek, compliant, and non-threatening, which is actually something only threatening people can pull off. He would stay back and prod Peter little by little, waiting for him to fall in his trap. And he did. Without a second glance, Peter signed his will, giving James Truman-Conelly his whole estate, enough to last him for a lifetime. Or enough to at least lead him to an early grave.
James Truman-Conelly needed the money, and fast. He had debts to pay, food to eat, and sights to see. There was a real danger of Peter figuring out his scheme, and the sooner he was gone, the better.
"Nice exposition," said Massimo. "Very much words and backstory. Massimo is feel bad for giving death to Peter earlier, but Massimo will give it for extra $5.000."
"Done," said James Truman-Conelly, shaking hands with Massimo. He stood up from his seat to leave, but not before whispering something into Peter's ear.
"It's nothing personal, buddy. Have a good death," he said.
Peter didn't even stir, and it was a good thing he didn't. It was the last peaceful moment he would have in his life.