Don't blame me, I just work there, but the name they gave it is that bad. The Mild Inconveniences Murder Clan, or MIMC, for short. Like I said, it's been going on long before me. I'm just an employee. They won't hire anyone, and they're not looking right now, and you don't fit anyway, so don't bother sending a resume. If they want you, they go after you. And they want the psychos. Like me. The way MIMC works is like this – you ever wished you could kill someone, but not like for real? Not like you're going to Target and buying a shovel and some bleach. Just for a second. Like you're in line at the bank and the person ahead of you is talking on the phone and they don't see the line has moved, and that image of plunging a knife on their throat flashes in front of your eyes? You know that feeling? You would obviously never do it, never ever in a million years. But there's a whole lot of people out there who'd love the job. We just want to help you, the MIMC, that's what it is. Even as I write this, I'm getting the calls from Central. We have a line – if you know the number, you know. If you don't, you don't. The way it is is like this – you have that minor inconvenience and you want someone to die. If you have MIMC's number, you call us. Then Central dispatches the closes psycho – me being one of them – to do the murder for you. Like last night. I got the call around 20:30. Four old ladies walking side by side in slow-motion, closing the sidewalk on 34th. I got the call – client is slightly pissed off that old ladies are closing the sidewalk. Take care of it. So I drive there, and I spot the ladies. I get out of the car, I smile and I put ninja stars on their foreheads and they drop dead. Awful. The client – the guy walking just behind them – he would never do such a thing, he's no psycho. But he wanted to, so he calls us, and we do it. And then he got to walk at normal speed again, past the bodies heading wherever he was heading. I'm telling you, it' a pretty big market. Even now as I write, here in this coffee shop, the calls keep coming. I'm like a cabbie in a way. Minor disturbance on the Plaza – client asked for medium-rare, burger came out rare. Minor inconvenience at Bloomingdales on 4th – the cashier was rude to client. Later last night it was the movies, at around ten. Minor inconvenience – stupid couple brought 3 year old kid to R rated movie. Kid is crying, client is mildly inconvenienced. So I drive there, I buy the ticket, I get inside the theater, I find the couple and I set them on fire. Then there was chaos and, granted, the kid kept crying and the movie was ruined… … but the client was satisfied. You always spot the client. That one smile in the middle of the theater while everybody screams in horror. That half-smile. Sometimes even a slight nod of the head. Thank you for being crazy for me. And the calls keep coming man, here on my phone. Minor disturbance at Beverly Hills Target City. Cashier insists on asking people to donate their change for charity, and gives dirty looks to people who say no. They keep coming and coming. I better take this next one, matter of fact – gotta work. Minor inconvenience at Westwood Starbucks – client is upset that stupid dude is taking up a six person table all for himself while he writes on a notebook. Huh… I look up, and I look around. Coffee, coffee, latte, people, chatting. Where is the – Oh, boy… I count the chairs around my table. One, two, three, four, five… yeap. And I stop him, right by the sugar and cream counter – the anticipation in his eyes, the anger, his gaze going from me to the door. Waiting for the job he paid for. It's me. I'm the minor inconvenience. I keep reading the message. Client specified he would like the target to be scalded in coffee and then knifed to death. I sigh. Client's eyes are still crazy from me to the door as I get up and head for the counter. "Five coffees, please. All boiling hot," I say, restrained. And I get my order. "Also, do you have a knife?" I head back to my way-too-big table for one person and I sit down and I rest the coffees on the table and the knife. Client's eyes are glued on me now, door forgotten. And I give him the slight nod. As I take the lid from the first cup, I give him the nod and the half-smile, and he frowns. A job is a job. And no one is really free from being an idiot. Everyone can be a mild inconvenience sometimes. A job is a job. I pour the first cup straight down my face and open the second lid. I grab the knife as my skin starts to boil. The client gets up. On his way past me – past the burning man sticking the knife down his own throat as he pours the third cup of boiling coffee down his body and the people scream bloody murder around – he half-smiles and nods. And he leaves the coffee shop. A job is a job.