Congratulations on Being Assassinated!

Today you’re going to join the ranks of John F. Kennedy, James Garfield and Hitler (Oops! Did we let that slip?): you’re going to be assassinated!

Normally this is an honor reserved for presidents, company presidents and people who are generally important. But today it’s going to be extended to the regional manager of seven Arby’s located through the West-Virginia/Pennsylvania area. The whys are a little bit complicated, but it’s safe to say that downloading all those Napster tunes back in the early “Oughts” didn’t help. The hows are a little simpler.

You’ll be walking across the street with your daughter, moving from an ice-cream parlor to one of the many small bars where you collect protection money (You’ve translated your Arby’s franchise into some remarkable organized crime clout.) when a young man wearing a low baseball hat will shoot you twice in the chest with a .45 caliber pistol at point blank range. The bullets will enter and exit the right side of your chest, collapsing your lung and flooding it with fluid. The shooter will take off running to a nearby pay phone to tell your ex-wife that the deed is done, doing his best not to giggle with excitement as he does so.

A few seconds after your head hits the pavement a second shot will ring out from across the street and a .308 rifling round will puncture your other lung, collapsing it and forcing painful shards of bone into the surrounding organs and tissue. The labored breathing you experienced before will rapidly degrade into full blown suffocation, filling you with panic in your last moments.

You’ll stretch out your blood soaked hand towards your daughter, wanting to let her know that you love her in your last moments and make a lasting impression that could psychologically scar her and allow you to live on in some small way for decades, but she’ll pull away. Then your daughter will draw a long knife from some unclear hiding place and slash into your throat, nearly removing your head from your body. After that, covered in blood, she’ll tilt back her head and start singing “Banana Phone” at the top of her lungs.

Turns out kids will do almost anything Rafi tells them, including murdering their own parents. Please, end music piracy.

Oh, and congratulations on being assassinated. You’re totally going to make the papers, fulfilling your pitiful life’s dream in death, if not life.