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.