Challenge #02417-F227: Single White Male, Age Eighteen to Thirty-five

Of the 7 deadly sins, three are responsible for most Murders. I present for your pen, "Greed". -- Anon Guest

There is nothing at all wrong with wanting nice things. Not necessarily the best, mind, but the best is always better than anything less so. I mean, who would rather have a minivan when they could have a porsche or a lamborghini, right? Before you start rolling your eyes at me, I am not one of those spoiled brats who threw a tantrum when they didn't get the right colour of poser-phone, or the right colour car for my quinciñera. I don't want everything.

I just want more. More control over my life. More money to invest how I see fit. More staff to manage the tedium. More time to enjoy myself. That's not bad is it? We all want those things. There's even a song about it. Time in a Bottle. Of course, I haven't found anyone to spend that time with, so I'll be spending it on me. Not that I'm selfish or anything. I've worked hard to be where I am. I should have nice things.

Of course, there are a select few who see it differently. The old man and his cronies. Some lawmakers who insist on keeping my manifest destiny contained. Some people who don't know when to keep their mouths shut about certain things. Calling my a sociopath and other names. While they don't exactly deserve to die, I have to admit... the world would be so much easier for me if the were just... not there.

The thought occurred to me at sixteen. I didn't have to murder the right people. I could arrange... little accidents. Happenstances of fate. A series of unfortunate circumstances. Those who were wont to complain about my family, including myself, were always the sort to live in the scummier districts. I knew better than to try educating them about their jealousy and ignorance. So I made living in the scummier districts... inconvenient.

It's rather simple. Buy out the laundromats and turn them into quaint little bistros, coffee shops, or cake pop stores. The poor people in those dives can't afford rent and dry-cleaning, so they move out... and better people move in. Soon, they're pushed into areas where crime is rife -well, more rife than normal- and either the crime or the local police take care of my little problem.

Arranging inconveniences for the better-bred people... that's a little trickier. Ironically, it's the social justice types who I could easily silence who have become my greatest allies. Leaking a few, anonymous hints and tips or even outright evidence, right where the vigilante left can find them... and all of a sudden, my opposition is too busy with court cases to bother about what I'm doing and with how much.

Eliminating my father from the picture... that was harder. Not emotionally, no. I've grown to hate the old man. Not that I say as much to anyone. It's all performative familial friendliness when witnesses are around. Before you ask - yes, I count the help as witnesses. They can get awfully gossipy if they think their tyrannical overlords have a chance to wind up with nothing or less.

Here's a tip for the rich and murderous. Be kind to the help. Pay them generously, remember their birthdays and holidays. Secure them things for their children that they couldn't get normally. Not the best, mind, just... out of their normal reach. The resultant gratitude will result in them glossing over any accidental reveals in regards to ultimate plans. It's even easier to convince in-house medical staff to give an old man what he wants rather than what he needs. A tear in the eye, a professed love for a parent, some heart-rending speech about extending a life in pain...

Slipping a little slow poison into something mundane also helps. They look for arsenic in food, but they don't think about certain rare toxins in the toothpaste or the skin cream. All you have to do is have a degree in science and have access to a laboratory, and you can obtain anything... of course, it also helps to have running experiments that use those rare toxins so one has plausible deniability.

Yes, I killed my father. He was in my way. Just like you are. Obviously, making your existence inconvenient hasn't worked, since you're here and armed. I presume my confession is being recorded? It certainly can't be streamed. Not in my mountain chalet far away from it all. I know... you think I'll never get away with this. You have a gun. I have... a button.

A button that opens the emergency chute you're standing on. Something inconvenient will happen to your recording, I'm sure of it. After all. The closest law enforcement agents are far away and history, my dear home invader, is written by the victors.

Goodbye.

[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / photography33]

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