Contract Killer
Register of Concept: A contract
hitter, isn’t expensive, besides one’s own secrets being granted to the
anonymous killer. So who, is a hitman,
or how, do you hire one, or especially, how do you put a contract on someone’s
head? How do you kill a hitman, block a
contract, or invoke one against your family?
What is offense, in the hit industry, as a connossieur, and where does
one hire a contract killer? These are
the most stereotypically misaligned concepts in the history of organized crime,
since there’s no organized crime structure around Murder-for-Hire. A detective’s agency, is the common concept
of murder-for-hire, security guards working for a hospital or mall or court’s
investigation bailiff or illicit overseas police service, often the same thing
when backed by hire or formation in theory by the same national group. This, is far more insidious, and you’ll see,
amusing. But it’s only funny, to the guy
making the paycheck off you, when the button is on you.
Comedy Club: The comedy club, is
where you can find a contract killer.
He’s the guy on stage, telling jokes.
He’s a superb master of logic, where it comes to researching his material. What’s his material? Blood. He’s a meticulous observer of the news, and
he’s the straightest homophobe on the planet, and even the worse open gay man,
is a closet lover of the opposite sex. A
female comic comes at high price, a joy luck revenge on a pornography actress,
a cop’s wife, just pick one, as long as she’s planning on getting remarried –
after your tip to her, and the dead cop.
They wait for you, every night, to watch their act, and it goes right
from person to person, letting them travel the world and live the gypsy’s life,
and if you want, you can get just about any comedian on the payroll, to right
the things gone right, so they go wrong – for the other guy. They’ll set up the secret to test it, and if
it works, they watch the news, for the laugher, the gag, to give them a
punchline for a new joke. An entirely
new style of comedy, comes about from a sitcom, a police hire of a funnyman, to
take out a politician, with a corruption suit, the most humiliating downfall
for any politician, be it an impeachment, an incarceration, an exile, a news
expose, an affair, or a bullet in the brain.
“Funny”, is making money, in murder.
Do you think bullets are cheap?
They are. There’s nothing cheap,
about comedy.
Arc of Act: There are two concepts
to the arc, and one variable. There’s
the bracket, and the crux. Something
signals the comic, to get off stage.
That’s the close of the bracket, which determines the beginning. And the crux, is the gesture, to the rude,
something defiling, about the way he killed a guy, with his own putz’s
humor. His putz, is his sack, not balls
or cock or vagina, but that hairy, lumpy thing down there, the goya. That’s you, Jew, you’re not him, you’re
Gentile. Get outta here. Through analyzing the needs of your necessary
hit, you can see how big a pair of balls you need. Is it one nut? Tiny sack?
Vaginal clit? An Arabic lady? A defense attorney with a whip and a
mustache? Burka Mutzso, the gay Muslim,
a terrorist? Or maybe big droopy, the
retired veteran, that wants to interview Snoop Dogg, but Snoop thinks he’s
asking the questions. But who’s on
camera, anyways? Who’s shooting this
thing?
Bit: The bit, is a brief interlude,
something the comic failed at. If you
see a bit, don’t use him, if you want a bit, you’re gumzo. If he’s using a bit, he’s out of service,
he’s got a contract he’s carrying out.
The bit seems like it’s smalltalk, but it gets a big applause. He’s got a wound on him, and he’s showing his
scars, to dare a heckle, a gun to his head, a real life bullet off the walkway
if you nail him and he can’t fight back.
Comics die over a successful heckle, especially a cop heckle, inviting
the most savage racism from the comic if he spots it, to get on camera and burn
your entire license, and take down the guy that planned it, with an apology on
the late night sketch. Who ordered it? The late night host. Didn’t like that guy. An illegal hit got carried out, the late
night guy worked with the cops to take you down. Carson, is the cops. And he’s fucking scary. Never insult Johnny, that’s the President of
appeals. You can win anything through
Carson, but don’t invoke him. He comes,
and he’s out there, at night, stalking you, on every stage. You think you’re funny? So does he.
And he’s a bitch. A motorcycle
gang beating is the least of your troubles, when Carson comes down on you. He wipes out your entire family, and marches
backwards, to every single contract, on Papal Scrolls, out of St. Patrick’s
Cathedral’s vault. And there’s more than
one of this P-O. Never a pig, he’s fair. Never a 5-0, there’s no badge. But always an insult, is hurled at his way,
once he gets you. Then the job’s
off. If you lie about the insult, you
read this guide. Sorry, Rickles, about
Noriega. He lost a shitload of my money. I’m Attleboro Camorra. A riverdale could be any Camorra lockpick,
but Attleboro is the one on the map, from Giusippe Alverde, the creator of the
comic, under Camorra authorship, for the Jughead, to keep the Mob (Little
Stakes), the Mafia (Steakhorn), and the Germans (The Help), out, so they don’t
kill you, Hebrew Yidza. I hope George Jung
dies in peace, somewhere safe. But he
won’t. They put him up on a barbeque
rye, on South Park, for Reagan, and the Republican Party. Honors to
Knives. That means, “Something in
Latin”. Only English I know.
Sketch: The sketch, is a parody
show, of your own act. You’ve gotten
pinched so bad, you married a pig, and you need Margaret Cho. She’s dead, they put her son in porn. We’ll never get another Prague Killer like
that, taking down every Rabbi in the city with a Flying Dragon laughing about
bacon bits and a dog hat on a furface.
Fucking brilliant and beautiful, lady.
The trade secret is simple, you put yourself on a sketch to put yourself
in porn on completion of season with Carson’s legacy, to be a female late show
host, then bomb it with a screen animation, to make all the Rabbis jack off to
Roger Rabbit, instead of Jessica Rabbit.
Every kid is a fat tank of dumb shit, if they’re from a Rabbi’s loins,
after the hit is through. Even a Ghost
Shadow can’t help you, and they’re the FBI, so says Phi Kappa Beta, The Skulls
(Church of Subgenius, sir, Judge P. Approved – no bondage in public, just on a
website, seen in public).
Skit: This is booney stuff, to kill
another comic, in hand to hand combat.
Someone has invoked you so bad, you volunteered for the class play,
homing to make a stage career. The
second he takes the play, you win. If he
backs down, he was a Greaso. That means,
this kid is a Mafia family, a Camorra heartlock, or worse yet, he’s a Spic
Pimp, a lawyer with a gun, a Sicario.
He’s a spy for sure, so you let him sign on, and then when he calls for
you to take him down, you hash the signal, for your career, and go to
Hollywood. Otherwise, he’s snuffed,
under his own kid, some day, and you get a gueinzo, a television special, maybe
a radio voice acting bit. They’ll never like
that piece of shit 00 again, and he’ll pave your way to gold, by killing your
mentor. Sorry, Will Morgan, about Harvey
Weinstein, but I’m sure he’s a two-faced dent.
Family Secret: This is the
payment. You have to have a family
secret, something real dirty and nasty, to give the comic. Just say, yadda yadda, but this guy, don’t
know. The summary, the ID of our perp,
and the bad grammar on positive negative, is what you need. That’s cop talk, in their mind, for this guy,
is going to cause me this, by me not making the money. And it will.
You’ve got Joker on a bitch quarter, a penny roll. He wants to eat a steak off your shoe, and it’s
made of lettuce. You need to get him a
nice pair of Converse Chuck Taylors, and you just did anyways. So he’ll do it. He gets his nice Armani suit, grey of course,
and if he’s Jewish, with something fancy to mark him as a real prick, and he’ll
figure it out. Huff through town, go to
Comedy Night, talk to cops, talk to your kids, drop your name, in case you
lied. And then he puts the button on the
nuc, the knuckle girl, to get it off, with a bribe. Power, of course. A Defender of Democracy, my father says. Right, Rickles?
Trade Secrets: Once you’ve sold your
secret, it never gets told to your kid.
One exception. “The Bat
Signal”. Every since we had comic books,
we always knew, Nietzsche didn’t cause the Holocaust, a cop did it. So we put Hitler, in a cop outfit, in case a
hit happens to your family, and you know the comedy trade, contract
killers. That’s called ‘the gas’,
pukers. You just barf out everything you
can imagine, fake and real, to Jews, or anyone claiming they’re Jews, as if you
know them, personally, slapped your hand on their thigh, to make sure their nuts
didn’t fall off. An entire new form of
media crashes out of private hobby, and appears for financial model. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m a cop.
I had a little hat once, but it fell off.
Hiring the Contractor: The
contractor is hard to get to. You need
Vegas, in your family. Maybe a booking
family, only legal (The Mafia), maybe a comedian in the family, the corruption
(he’s a nice guy), or worse yet, the gaming commission in the family (you’re
going to kill him by being anywhere close).
To put the bookie on it, you need to fly or drive to the casino, and
talk to the bookies in your family, about the old invention, that this putz
messed up, for the casino chatter. They
hire them for you, since the invention, is a family secret. Let them pick the guy, and the target, and
they’ll keep doing it, until the comedian comes to you, for the contractor,
asking, who came up with this. They
don’t like that guy, a lot of people got hurt, and now this guy has all this
money, and you get a lawsuit if you have money.
Corruption, is as simple as mentioning your cousin at the local haunt,
to summon ‘The Ghouls’, the bartender that knew him on a past hit to get his
job after he hit the skids from a revenge hit being summoned, in a crossways,
the dumbest way for a comedian to end up with you knowing what he does for a
living. You’ll bring in a real mobster,
whomever put this guy on the track and street game, on the bets
tournament. Trivia night, will run,
until your cousin calls you up, and tells you about a funeral in the
family. The job’s done, and he’s killed
another family member. Just one. Could be your kid, and he’ll try that one
first. He needs to work this out, he’s a
little old. The most legendary hit of
all time, is the gaming commission. You
tell him, that Vegas, should have this comedian (a guy you want, especially a
small guy), on TV, and disclose the family secret. If the booker already knows, then it’s been
taken, this guy is the mastermind. But,
if it’s open, you give a kid a chance at being a real boy. You’ve been Gepetto, the most sacred
character to anyone with a wiseguy in the family. Something real bad happened to all of you, a
knives hit from the Church’s assassins, their science and physics monks, and
you’re all dumpy. What’s dumpy? You can’t cry, but you’re sad. You’re just little wooden kids, like that
comedian, trying to make things right.
It’s murder, but they do it too.
The difference is, you make people smile, with your mouth, not a knife.
Open Contract: You’ve been
whacked. It doesn’t matter who did it,
your honor has been invoked. Someone has
accused you, of being a rapist. That’s
what this means. I don’t care who it
was, any clause, your own family, your comedian family, it doesn’t matter. If you live through the whack, even Lee
Harvey Oswald wasting your fucking father and you going to the club with your
brother Ted, to talk to the gaming commission representative in Dallas, Jack
Ruby, you’re going to do this. Kennedy,
has been a Jewish name, ever since, and it’s time to help people. Really help people, get the kanautzapah
up. You do this, you do it right. You mark each and every face you saw that
night. You put everyone you can, into a
filing bin, then you see who sticks to you.
It’s a thieves den, you go into it, for the knife to your chest, the hand
to your heart, and the dick up your ass, in your twat, or the cleave on your
melon. You’re gone, Fun Boy. The Crow wasted you. Now kill him, for the thieves, Top
Dollar. Take your badges. It’s murder time. Put them all out there, one batch, and whomever
sticks on you longest, is the one you put the hit on. Your prime suspects, have to be actor
resemblances. Wheel in, stalk, barter,
call, whichever one, looks like their character. Whomever stays, is Baby Boy, Eric Draven, the
Dresden Syndrome. He got fucked up real
bad by wasting you, and you want Devil’s Night.
That’s what you’ve been crying about, since that pussy chickenshit died
for you, to kill Triads that killed his father?
Brandon Lee is Jack Ruby, and now, so are you. So you dump that contract out there, in a
comedy club, a message board. Something
nice and simple, and an academic fraud, a type of secret that’s so obvious that
nobody finds it. Figure out what a line
of insight available to you us, that offers a demi-journalism degree. Anything you’ve ever been involved in, is in
there. That caused it, your insight, you
find. Now dump the insight, and the face
actor, and the man you think is running it from their plot, the many hands, and
then, jack out, by calling them Jesus.
Jesus is gay. He’s on the Cross,
the MBTA, the T. God Help Us.
Offending a Hitter: You stole your
own bit. You sent a guy to standup with
a prank planned. You humiliated a
college student. You interrupted open
mic night. Now, you’ve been
heckled. This goes to the Mob
Scene. Mobsters, real ones, criminals
with corrections help and protection walks and drug dealing operations and of
course, Jewish criminals of the worst sort, brokers and talent agents and
concert promoters, love night clubs. For
comedy, not music. Music sucks, compared
to murder. Comedy, is where the
comedians hate it, but they have to go.
It’s their protection. If you
ever whack a hitter, you die, right off the spot. The Mob swarms you, anyone, even Johnny Dago,
me. That’s what they call me, Johnny
Dago, not the old name, Funyun. Your
entire life story, frequents comedy clubs, until somebody ‘nails you’. They figure out why they did it. And it was your penis. You’re a new comic book character, a
superhero. Just take it. They do this anyways, but this way, it gets
printed. And if you’re a hitter
too? There’s the moths to call in. Your gun, up in the attic, and the
grease. Your father served, if you’re a
standup man, or open mic. Kill them,
then kill yourself. It’s over,
Joker. You’re The Batman.
Whacking a Wiseguy: This is the most
suicidal thing to do. But it’s
funny. For everybody, but your kid. Do you want to put a kid in the role you
failed in? Put a hit on your kid. When he’s a toddler. That’s how you swarm him, into some kind of
psychopathic monster, not the kid you see typing this, but the big moog in the
green jacket and the Son of Sam glasses and the whip back bald head and missing
teeth and cigarette stench that frequents a small town, only the liquor store
and Cumberland Farms. You only see who
he is for four special years.
College. He always spends exactly
four years there. Any comedian who pulls
a burn on him, since he was a toddler, slowly wilts up and dies. Jim Gaffigan, used to self-heckle, any Arab
in the audience. 9/11. He’s done.
Now he insults his own shit coming out of his ass, for prior
endorsements. Saw it, when I was 14, at
Caroline’s, in NYC. Rodney
Dangerfield? He ruined comedy, by making
the National Lampoons model, for British Intelligence. It was wrong, to form Subgenius. It’s a fraternity chapter that takes
advantage of kids with spy fathers, to kill people, real people, in public,
shame their families, Hollywood, Congress, the victims. Turns people into animals. Like me.
Removing a Marked Spot: Westminster
Abbey. This is the darkest place to
contemplate. General Patton, Mullah
Omar, and CIA Officer Osama Bin Laden, all have signed the three century old
scroll scrawl of books, in this abbey.
Once your father, makes an assassin hit, for the cops, as a mobster,
you’re a spy, and you get to sign this book.
You’re free, kid.
Road to Perdition: Starring Tom
Hanks and Jude Law. Only real movie
about comedy I’ve ever seen. A Shrek piece.
His specialty, Looney Tunes.
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