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How to Kill Your Boss

By John Leet All Rights Reserved ©

Thriller / Mystery

HOW TO KILL YOUR BOSS

Sometimes when I’m feeling sad or lonely I like to go out and kill a policeman. Let me tell you, nothing lifts your spirits like seeing a person writhing soulless at your feet. I love a man in uniform.

“Did you see what happened?” A man walks up and stands a few feet from the body, making idle conversation without bending down to see if the victim is still alive. He waits there waiting for someone else to do something while the policeman bleeds out. He casually checks you out, maybe he’ll even try to ask you out. At a crime scene.
“I think he fell. From there.” You point up to the top of the news building.
“Shit. That’s two this month. I think it’s one of those corrupt cops who couldn’t deal with it any more.”
“Probably,” you lie. You have no opinion on his moral fiber, he’s just a dead man now. As a crowd gathers you quietly walk away.

I know what you’re thinking, how can you kill a policeman? And I’ll explain how in a minute.

I turned myself in to the authorities because I got bored of killing people. Life has no meaning when you’re the best at something.

“Get on your feet,” the warden tells me every morning because I like to sleep late in the cell I share with another killer, a gangster who collects bottle tops, but only the red ones. Fucking weirdo.
“Yes, sir,” I answer dutifully, knowing that I could grab his tie, wrap it around his neck, push him down hard against the door handle as his polished shoes slip and slide against the floor while I punch his throat, collapsing his windpipe.
“Breakfast in five,” he commands. “Why we have to feed scum like you is beyond me,” he mutters as he walks out.
“If you don’t,” I say with a hint of a smile at his receding back, “you turn into me.” He shows me the finger over his shoulder.

I walk in a line with the others to the canteen and sit with a group who, like me, have taken lives into their own hands. I can’t sit with paedophiles and rapists, not because I have standards or morals, I don’t, but because they annoy the fuck out of me with their dumb jokes. I’m a bit old for sex. My interests are more final.

You’ve probably wanted to kill someone but didn’t go through with it because you suddenly developed a conscience, or as I like to call it ‘a sudden case of the coward’. More likely you didn’t go through with it because you couldn’t find a way to hide the body. Killing is easy, dumping a body is the hard part.

Maybe you were sitting in the office one day and your boss came in and shat all over your head because he’s a douche-bag and as he’s walking out he says to his top sales executive, “Did you see ze tits on zat one, ey, good ey?”
and right there you wanted to pick up your monitor and ram it into the back of his fucking neck. Yes, maybe you do have good tits, maybe they’re even fantastic tits, but your tits are not to be rallied about to make you feel worthless. They’re your goddam tits.

Instead of killing your boss you save your work and make the pointless corrections he asked, not because you’re a corporate slave, but because you’re a good person.
You get a new mug. You wear a less revealing sweater.

I will tell you how to kill your boss and get away with it, bear with me.

There are three main ingredients to any murder:
A spoon of Opportunity,
A pinch of strength, mental or physical,
A practiced technique.

Yes, you will need to practice, you will need to work your way up to killing people, just like any college student who thought at the end of high school that the world was now going to be wonderful and all the bullies were gone forever, but found out that the douche-bags of the world were about to get meaner and that the cage they are both in is about to get smaller.

You found out you have to work your ass off yet again.
You never get to rest, because the people who own you want to maximize your time for their profit. Don’t ever forget that. You will work to make their dreams come true until you die.
Yes, you will have to do some work, but killing people will help you make your cage bigger. Even open the door. This will make you happy. Killing people is good for you.

Let’s start with stuff you already have, because I’m guessing you don’t have the physical or mental ability to strangle someone, and I’m guessing you don’t know a .45 magnum.

No, not a knife. Rule 1. Knives are very, very difficult.

You watched countless films where the hero walked behind a bad-guy and just slit their throat. Let me tell you from first hand experience that if you slit someone’s throat you suddenly have to deal with an angry, scared animal who is also very, very wet and slippery. It takes about ten minutes to die, even with an expertly severed jugular, ask any medic. A stab victim doesn’t die from the stab, they die from losing blood.

Do you know how long ten minutes is? Go ahead and count out ten minutes. You’ll give up before you reach two, I guarantee it. That’s not ADD, that’s sanely realising you’re wasting your time.

Knives mean you have to get close, the stabbing or slicing or whatever heroic action you have in mind is only the beginning, you have to keep that angry, scared, wild animal down for ten or maybe twenty minutes. Can you do that to your boss? Probably not. He probably does karate and kick-boxing, paid for by the money you make him. He probably has an ambulance parked nearby with two sets of hot tits in white uniforms sitting obediently in the front seat just in case someone figures it all out one day.
There is a reason why knives are legal.

You have things in your house. Killing things. Like drain cleaner.
If you are part of a loving family that argues all the time there is drain cleaner somewhere, because most arguments are about territory and environment and keeping clean.
Clean your room.
Pick up your towels.
Stop hitting your brother.
“I’m going to kill that child,” your mother said every time you did what you wanted and not what she wanted.
Drain cleaner is made from borax. Borax is very, very soapy, or base, and so base that when exposed to hot water it forms a powerful compound that scours away organic matter to leave copper pipes sparkling clean.
Organic things are made of acidic proteins and acids and bases don’t get along. Bases break proteins apart.
Drain cleaner works equally well on human pipes. Drain cleaner poured down the throat scrubs away all those nasty bacteria on the way down, and after ten minutes or so the victim will feel thoroughly drained.
Did you see what I did there? Even though I have killed a whole lot of people I still have a sense of humor, I’m not all philosophical about it. Get moody and you lose your edge.
But here’s the thing about drain cleaner. You don’t have to use it all at once. You don’t have to walk into your boss’s office and hold back his head and pour it down his throat. That would be career suicide.
You add a teeny tiny bit to his coffee every time he snaps his fingers at you and tells you he likes his coffee like he likes his women, hot, black, and in his mouth.
A teeny tiny bit of drain cleaner in his coffee will taste a little bitter. He’s so stupid he will think it’s flavor, because he heard that bitter coffee is better coffee.
The borax will fight with the flora in his stomach and give him the runs. After a few weeks he will develop ulcers because the base neutralizes the stomach acid that eats away the predatory bacteria, it eats through the stomach walls letting the acid eat through the cell membrane, causing ulcers that become tumors.
And you thought school biology was a waste of time.

Kill the friends of your enemies and it leaves your enemies exposed. Remember that.

Maybe you don’t have six months to kill your boss and risk getting caught. And maybe he gets bored of you after a few weeks when the new secretary with the bruises on her wrists starts working there and they are always having coffee somewhere else and making stupid innuendos about being tied up at work.
That lucky bitch, she has every opportunity to slaughter that pig but she is so stupid and selfish she doesn’t go through with it. Because he pays her.

The biggest hurdle for any killer is killing a child. Now I’m not saying that you should go out and practice on babies, even though that would be easy. I’m saying that every human being is still the baby they once were and somewhere in the back of your mind you know this.
This is why you get nervous to kill someone. No one cares if some fat old guy gets thrown off a bridge onto the highway.
If you’re young and innocent and pretty the world will mourn your death because that’s how shallow we are.
A hundred adults can die horribly in a plane crash but if one cute kid survives people call it a miracle. No one talks about the ugly ones that survived, because it’s such a shame about their parents and we should respect their privacy, they will say. People are such douche-bags.
Deep inside our brain is that little reminder that everyone was a sweet innocent little bundle of joy at some point. Even me. And killing even me is, oh, quite hard.

The best place to kill someone is in their own home. That’s why our homes have walls and locks and our streets do not. Your home is the most dangerous place on earth.

You watch your boss and his wife through their Victorian window. You killed their dogs quite expertly because you’ve practiced on dogs and cats. Yes, you did, you jerk.
“Where’s my toupee?” You hear him ask through the imported glass that costs more than you earn in a year.
“Where you last put it,” she replies in her voice that you know is a stripper’s voice but you don’t know how you know.
“Forget it. Where’s my shirt for tomorrow?”
“I ironed it and put it in the cupboard. I cleaned the lipstick off.”
“Just shut up about it now, Star, I’m serious.”
“Why don’t you just leave me! Is she so much better than me?” She collapses onto the silk sheets and covers her face with the pillow.
“Don’t test me! Don’t you fucking test me! You knew who I was when you married me.”
“I made a mistake!” She yells and throws the bedside lamp (Willoughby and Sons, $330) to smash against the wall far from where he is standing. He rushes over to her and slams his fist into her face.
“Shut the fuck up now. Go to sleep.”
And she does. She just fucking does. She gets on with the business of being his wife.

You wait outside their window for their snores to fill the room.

Earlier in the week you bought two gallons of gas, and after using a copy of his keys that you took from his secretary’s purse you disable the alarm and walk silently into their room and gently pour the liquid over them in their sleep.
Earlier you watched him order her around and make her clean things and do naked jumping jacks for his pleasure while he sipped the drink she brought him.
You kill her too, pouring the gasoline over them both and put them both out of their misery with a match. Before you make that final WOOF, you slide their heater a little closer to their bed.
Honestly, will the world stop turning? Not even an inch.

In about an hour there won’t be a team of forensic experts scrubbing the scene for clues, no one will open a special file. The tired fire chief will just write it down as two idiots who fell asleep with the heater too close to the bed and get on to the next job.
No one cares about the people you kill, not really.

“Hey, are you okay?” The homeless man asks because you’re a woman walking alone at night in sweatpants and a jacket and you’re not a hooker.
“I’m aces, guy,” you answer, not scared of him at all, “do you know where that guy went? The man in the black BMW?”
Your ex. The one who cheated on you with a married woman. You decided tonight is his last night on earth. Yes, you’re finally changing the world like you dreamed.
“307.” The homeless man answers. Homeless people see everything - you will have to kill him later on your way home. It’s not like he’s doing anything useful for the planet anyway.


And here I am, standing in front of you. You thought you could get away with it forever, maybe you thought it was exciting to almost get caught. The blue-grey pants from your uniform are neatly hanging on the towel rack because you don’t like to take a shit with your pants on, and because it took me three years to train you not to be a slob.
“What are you doing?” You stammer out as I stand in front of you, your underpants still hugging your ankles while you sit on your porcelain throne.
Your most vulnerable place.
You can’t stand up because you’d be embarrassed.
You can’t defend yourself verbally because you don’t really know what this is all about.
“You cheated on me,” I say, pretending to be upset. This is really a smoke screen. (That will be hilarious in a minute)
I’m not going to kill you because you cheated on me and hurt my feelings, I lost my feelings a long time ago.
“Can we talk?” I say, swinging the bag I’m carrying around from my back and untying the knot.
“Sure, honey, go wait in the kitchen, okay?”
Oh dear. You really shouldn’t have said that.
I decided that you are a threat to me, because maybe you figured out who I really am. And because I just don’t like you any more. I’ve changed, you haven’t.
You started bringing home your gun from work and that threatens me. I don’t like to be threatened. “I decided that you’re next,” I say, dropping the large plastic bag of granulated chlorine and lithium polymer batteries onto the floor with a thump.
“What?” You say, awkwardly trying to pull up your underpants, the ones I washed for you. The ones I still wash for you.
Me.
Your little wifey.
I strike a match, push it into the white powder, and step back as the dense clouds of toxic smoke billow from the pile.
I lock you in your bathroom.
If you’re smart you’ll figure out that water will make this little situation much, much worse. If you spent the last ten years in the gym instead of the library you’re about to have an important chemistry lesson.
Let’s see how much you’ve learned.

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