The Perfect Crime

It was 9:30 in the morning when my phone began to ring. I answered with my usual gruff "Hello," looking to either establish myself as leader of the pack in the event of a male caller or woo the ladies with my unkempt manliness in the event of a female caller. It was a female caller. "Hello sir," she said too politely, "May I purchase an airplane ticket to Botswana?" I sniffed haughtily, "What do you think I am, an airport?" "Isn't that exactly what you are?" she asked. "Never!" I cried, "I am a house. You most certainly have the wrong number." "I never dial wrong numbers," she replied, "My fingers are as precise as an ape playing checkers." The wrongness of this metaphor astounded me so much that I promptly hung up.

It was 9:37 in the morning when my phone began to ring. I answered with my usual delicate "Hello," looking to establish an air of fragility in the event of a female caller or to lure the male caller into a false sense of manhood. It was a male caller. "Hello sir," he said gruffly, "I would like three tickets to Katmandu." Could this be coincidence? I wondered. What if the world had shifted, and I was now seen as its airport? I decided to play it like I knew it. "Hold on," I said, "Let me forward you to our manager." I reached into my jar of paper clips and placed one gently across my nose. The effect on my voice was that it became harsh and nasally. My acting was nothing short of phenomenal. I convinced the man that to acquire his ticket for an extensively low price, he would have to meet me in the wooded grove around lunchtime. He was skeptical of course, but you would be amazed as to how well such a stunning actor as myself could perform under pressure.

It was 11:13 in the morning when I stepped out of my house, smelling the faint whiff of opportunity. I hopped in my jalopy, off to the wooded grove. Despite the vaguely defined parameter known as 'lunchtime,' the man from the telephone and I arrived at nearly the same time, myself at 11:34, him at 11:37. He was short and bulky, with a noticeable clubfoot. His red hair gleamed obnoxiously in the few rays of sunshine that could make their way through the tall evergreens above our heads. "Are you the airport?" he asked suspiciously. With great vigor, I brandished my club. Quickly I smashed in his head, so quickly. Blood poured from his eyes as I hit him once twice thrice. In his last gasps I like to think that he noticed the irony of murdering a clubfooted man with a club. I returned to my jalopy, whistling a sea shanty as I strolled.


"Go ye lads, out to sea
Bring some treasure back for me
Arrr yarr har de har
Some treasure back for me"