KILL THE RICH AND THEIR BUTLERS TOO

It turns out that there are at least three hillbillies—sorry, Ignorant Rural Americans—who can read AND write well enough to email me (two really, the third just sent a hand drawn picture as an attachment). They argue that if I am going to advocate the murder of their kinfolk (I’m sure they’re all related somehow), then they will boycott this blog (I am not sure they really understand what boycott involves and accomplishes, but that’s their prerogative). Or they said I could tell them how to kill rich people (which probably means anyone who wears shoes and has more than half his/her own teeth). Since I believe in the great equality of humanity, I will provide my Hinterlandish ignorami americani readers help with their kills too.

Unfortunately, killing the rich is more difficult than killing any other group, primarily because they carry around with them poor people to act as body armor. You have to shoot through quite a few poor people to finally hit your rich target. Furthermore, they prefer being high about the rest of us, penthouses and whatnot, so they can look down their noses at us without even having to move their heads. It’s a lot of stairs to climb to kill one, and they sure as hell don’t let us use the elevator—they always have those special keys to the elevator, to make sure the poor don’t get near them. Damn rich people.

Or they live in giant mansions on huge estates, behind massive stone walls. By the time you scale the wall, find the damn house through all the trees, and then find which of the zillion rooms in the bedroom of the person you want to kill, guess what? Their kiss-ass butler tells you, “Master and Lady are Wintering in Aspen” or summering in Monaco, or yachting with the Kennedys. So you just end up shooting the butler, but that’s so unsatisfying. (Sure, it’s ironic, but if you wanted an ironic kill, there are far better targets; see IRONIC KILLS.)

Ultimately, the only way to kill the rich is to infiltrate they homes and offices. Butlers, maids, pool boys, slaves (including sex slaves), ass wipers, gardeners, valets, chauffeurs, cooks, you get the idea. They never actually call your references—that would involve them doing work—so as long as you write down a bunch of names (make sure they sound like white people names, but not hillbilly names—and put a few roman numerals after the names, that always sounds rich) and addresses on streets with floral or French sounding names, you should get an interview. And in the interview, make sure you ALWAYS say “Sir” or “Madam” or if you really want to suck up, let slip a “Your Excellency” or “Your Eminence” or “Master”—they can’t get enough of themselves, so anything that elevates them even higher is guaranteed to get you a job. (NOTE: if you are applying for the maid or gardener job, just say “Sí” a lot, like you have no idea what they’re saying, even if you’re white—for some reason the rich believe there is something genetic in Latinos/as that makes them good gardeners and maids.)

Now, once in the employ of the rich, be patient. Give the rich bastard a few months to get comfortable around you (this will also give you enough time to earn the money to buy a handgun—which with rich folks you have to conceal). It might also give you a chance to find where all the money is hidden (it’s not in or under the mattress in rich people’s houses), but don’t steal anything until after you shoot Moneybags. Oh, and while it is not accepted to kill the other staff—they’re as downtrodden as you—it is okay, even encouraged, to kill the butler on the way out. Face it, the only thing a butler has to do is “butle” and no one on the whole damn planet knows what that means.

And once you’ve killed the Wicked Witch of the West, the Munchkins . . . wrong story. Once you’ve killed the Rich Bastard, the staff will be so happy they’ll burst into song, especially if the Butler is dead too. You might even get the maid to date you or the chauffeur or both, but get out of the house fast. Rich people have connections, and when a rich person is killed, the police actually answer the phone. I think the rich people get a special phone number to call—you know how 911 sends you to this operator who chats and asks all kinds of pointless questions, they probably just call 1, and poof, a cop answers and another is at the door within seconds. And it’s not just the cop who barely passed the academy, it’s a detective who seems smart and has a bag full of tools like they have on CSI. I mean really, when was the last time anyone looked for DNA evidence or fingerprints at a crime scene in the inner city.

So, infiltrate, kill, and get out fast. It’s your only chance.

Viva la revolucion!