Vickers was a fire-breathing ginger capable of mass-destruction
even in the unlikeliest of places and therefore had to be kept under
constant supervision lest he destroy your peace of mind, soul and your
five-year relationship while going to the fridge to get a beer.
I had spent the last half-hour trying to kill him with my mind.
It wasn’t working (one day) so I offered him a cigarette.
On our way out to the patio I checked my coat pocket
for the blade I had coated in ant poison that my good buddy
at the shelter assured me would work on gingers. It was still there but the
patio had too many witnesses so I attempted to lure him into the back alley
under the false pretense that there were hot naked women doing yoga and
handing out free bags of cocaine.
He looked suspicious. I would have to try again later when he wasn’t as sober.
This wasn’t the first time I had tried to kill a ginger. Actually this one, specifically,
I have been trying to kill for years. He was my best friend so there was plenty of opportunity
but I had been so clumsy in the past and now had hoped to rectify that and finally rid the world
of one less gleefully frothing maniac that for all I know could be the next Napoleon
and didn’t Hitler start off as an artist?
In the past I have pushed him off a balcony, down a flight of stairs, into an elevator shaft, off of the CN Tower and to no avail as each time he had been so drunk and his body so relaxed by booze that Vickers nimbly bounced off whatever surface he landed on just to come back and demand more beer.
There were also the times when I had laced his weed with all kinds of shit and enough of it that it should have caused permanent brain damage if not an immediate and painful death but it inexplicably did not and I can only conclude that his tolerance was too high having been built from years of self-abuse and personal neglect.
And long has it been since I had given up on switching his beverages for ones saturated with all kinds of toilet cleaners, rodent poisons, industrial chemicals and even stuff that I picked up on the black market that looked like it belonged on an episode of X-files and you could even hear whispering if you placed your ear close enough to it. It was just too bad that Sonny (a.k.a F-DUP) had gotten arrested trying to bring some high-grade shit in from Japan (that glowed, yes, glowed) because I am sure that would have taken care of it like nobody’s business.
I can even recall the one time the depraved libertine had discovered my stockpile of mixed death-toxins meant to be introduced into his system nightly by injection and had guzzled all of the jugs at once leaving a mess in the shed all because he was out of alcohol and low on cash. Vickers had seemed to have caught a mild buzz off of it but little else and most certainly not the death for which it was intended and to my chagrin it was at this time that I had begun to realize the extent of his ginger constitution was not going to allow for such solutions to work therefore I need to reassess, focus and expand my base of operations until the devilish red rogue no longer remained a threat to humanity.
I do not think that he entirely suspects me so I will have my day. I have labs down south, a training facility up north, a weapons factory to the west and a team on standby in the east. It’s going to happen, all a matter of timing and finesse. I am even considering going undercover as a ginger myself to gain more intel on their devious ways and possible weaknesses. Hell, If I need to I will even deploy sharks with frickin’ laser beams on their heads.
I am going to post this on his wall because they say that the best place to hide your intention is in plain sight. Yes, I have read Machiavelli. It’s working. Gingercide is near.
I will sack me a ginger yet and it will make for a fine day.
Yes, a fine day indeed.