The minute I walk out of this goddamn room, I’m firing my wife. This meeting was supposed to lead to a sure thing; a future client. That is until my backstabbing best friend helped the evil midget I know as my wife find out about this otherwise, unknown meeting. What you have to understand is that I love her. I fucking love my wife, but if she calls me kitten one more-
“Kitten?”
I’m going to start poisoning her food. It’s the only option I’ve been able to come up with. I can’t divorce her, I’m too much of a selfish bastard who can’t handle seeing her live out her days with someone else. I won’t violently kill her, because like I said, for some reason, she owns my heart, yet she’s too fucking thick headed to listen when I tell her I’m holding these meetings on my own.
“Abel!”
My piece of shit so-called best friend yells at me. I’d like to point out the fact that I have no qualms about murdering him as he is a dirty bastard. Unfortunately, I can’t, as he is also my wife’s best friend, and regardless of the fact that my dreams are mostly comprised of various situations of strangulation of the two of them, my everything equates to her. But shit, this fuck doesn’t even try to play off the fact that he helped my wife find me. The keen ability to real-time mute them has become paramount in my life; this being said as I effortlessly ignore the two plagues of my life, and address what I had hoped to be our next source of income.
“Mr. Caprice, I assure you, my team and I are more than capable of recovering your wife.”
“Fine. You’re fucking hired.”
And so you have it, my two fellow unfit citizens of society and I are well on our way to obtaining a butt fuck of money for doing what we do best, missing person recovery with a side of fatalities. Sometimes we’re ordered to subtract the missing persons from that equation, yet the pay for a platter of death is always in high demand.