The Collected Works of Alex Finkelstein and Clifton Boyd

I was walking silently into the hotel with a giant suitcase in one hand and a bagel in the other; dressed just like another inconspicuous person walking to his room, smiling politely at anyone who passed by.  I stepped into the elevator, pretended to push the button, and waited until it closed.  Very quickly, not letting anyone get the chance to get to the elevator next, I broke off the plastic cover to a button labeled “DO NOT TOUCH!”  While the old elevator slowly made its way up to the roof, I unpacked my sniper from my suitcase.  Once on the roof I loaded my gun and then looked at my watch impatiently, waiting for 2:57 p.m.  During that minute, and that minute only, when billionaire John Brown, the manager of Crunk Jam Records, walked in public dressed in all black, sunglasses, and a hat with his hair temporarily dyed whatever color shirt his wife was wearing that moment.  All of a sudden, I saw him on Michigan Avenue, just walking out of Saks with an Armani suit on with the tag still hanging from the sleeve.  Once hidden in the crowd, he started rushing through all of the people, wanting to get back to the safety of his security guards.  Prepared for his speed, earlier I had paid one of the homeless guys fifty bucks to stop and beg some psycho running down the street.  Everything was going according to plan, with Mr. Brown desperately trying to get around this seemingly crazy hobo asking over and over for some spare change.  Then, without a second thought, I shot him.  In an instant, I saw the billionaire John Brown, manager of Crunk Jam Records, fall to the ground in unbearable pain, with a hole bleeding heavily in his chest.  I knew all of that target practice would pay off.  Quickly before anyone would know where the shot came from, I took of my shoes, put on a new pair from my suitcase, and with a mop from the roof, I wiped my sniper and the floor clean.  Leaving everything behind, I walked out of the hotel innocently, feeling a wonderful but somewhat evil sensation flowing through my veins.
I was sitting on my red, leather couch as I turned on my 50-inch Samsung plasma television to watch the news with a devilish grin.  “Please give a moment of silence for the loved and belated John Brown, one of the most well kwown music managers in the world.” The Channel 5 news anchor said with small, but meaningful tears ran down her face ruining her nearly perfect make-up.  In five seconds flat, I was off the couch, pounding my fists against the carpet as hard as possible, with tears rolling down my face; not from sorrow, but from laughter.  I felt absoleutely nothing for that 35 year-old, no good, money grabbin thief.  He stole my father’s beats, and killing him was the only fair punishment.  My dad was a single father, so he was always a hard worker.  He was a DJ for a living, and made up his own beats on the side.  One day he sent his beats to Crunk Jam Records, hoping they’d like his beats and buy them off him; instant money.  But they liked a better idea: they stole them.  Since he had no patton to prove they were his, they got enough stuff to keep cool music coming for years while my dad was forced to walk away with only the tears from his eyes.
“The police say they have a lead.” The anchor said looking at the paper, stunned.  Suddenely I stopped all of my actions, wondering if I had forgotten anything.  “On the roof of a hotel, they found a sniper, a suitcase, and shoes.  The sniper and floor, was wiped clean.  But there was some hair in the shoe which led the police to Fred Jackson, son of the belated John Jackson.”
Quickly, I got a spare hand gun from my room, closed my eyes, and without a second thought, I felt the same pain John Brown felt just as the police kicked open the door.