The story below has ZERO relation to recent current events. If you're not convinced, can I at least convince you of synchronicity? I hope so.
This was actually inspired by Alfred Jarry and JG Ballard.
The world's oldest profession is not prostitution. It's being a pimp. First came pimp, then came prostitute. Okay, now that that's settled, allow me to introduce to you the world's newest profession:
Sniper caddy.
Whether it's a ball in a cup or a bullet in the brain, ‘tis all the same.
Pleased to meet your acquaintance. My name's Derek. My last name is of no consequence, other than it being Scottish, which made my affinity to the lovely game of golf--originally 'gawf’—a forgone fate.
I'm pretty sure they would have knocked off Kennedy with a single shot had the Grassy Knoll been a Kentucky rye blend with a tall fescue overseed. Such strains of grass reflect less sunlight, therefore causing less adverse reflection. In other words, the Dealey Plaza landscaper is to blame for the fallout.
Then again, not every hole can be a hole-in-one. And even Chris Kyle had his off days. He didn't have me, however.
What y'all call targets, I call daisy-pushers. Looky here, son. Everybody's got to check in at the maggot motel sometime. Why not go out in style? A .338 caliber slug to the occipital is a compliment, far as I'm concerned.
I have a bit of Hermes in me. I be the psychopomp to the afterlife. Call me a karmic facilitator. Tee time is whenever a daisy pusher's existence becomes extraneous.
The courses in the afterlife aren't anything to shake a tee at. To wit: Ghehenna Downs—a technical course where the back nine takes you through a panoply of demons torturing Ponzi schemers and abstract expressionists. And then there's Sheol Beach, where only Alice Cooper makes par.
A sniper is just a subcontractor the Grim Reaper has outsourced his heavy workload onto. For assassinations are essentially golf games. It's about inserting your projectile into assigned holes. Incels need not apply: if you can't pull the trigger on getting her digits, you can't pull the trigger.
The Kennedy Assassination was two-over-par. Some say it was three-over-par.
The Ides of March incident was something like eighty-two-over-par. Cassius, it had been agreed upon, was to make for the throat chakra, but gecko-like Gaius dodged that one and all play on the fairway went to hell. This is what happens when a patrician daddy's boy from the Palatine Hill looks to slum it with the plebs without coming within a thousand hectares from the Campus Martius.
It's my job, then, to make sure you play a game without too much of a handicap. You can invest in the best equipment—scope, tripod stand, shoulder rest, apnea training course—but if you don't have that objective minder in your ear, you're likely to double-bogie like every other sorry sap dumb enough to still choose a bolt-action.
So the guy I'm assigned to at this moment goes by the name of Kurt. Of course that's not his real name. I get to call him Kurt, though. And what does he get to call me? Whatever he wants. Usually it's meat, distractor, hangnail. That last one stings. See, he didn’t hire me. His contract firm did. There had been so many botched assassinations and missed opportunities as of late that my position got invented by Yours Truly.
When before the most grisly thing I used to see was a portly, middle-aged white guy in too-tight periwinkle polyesters hacking at his ball to no avail in a sand trap, now I've seen cross sections of gray matter and cranial bone shrapnel I had no idea could amount to a living human being.
Kurt lies prone behind an air-conditioning unit on top of a seven-story apartment building. I hover around Kurt's left shoulder, where parrots usually perch. Or angels dispensing sage advice.
The target is a gubernatorial stiff with a spray-on tan, gameshow host-sensible hair, and a spray-on wife. He's been vowing to crack down on pork-barrel spending and undercutting teachers and firefighters unions. He lives in this building.
Something has held the stiff up. We've been up on the roof for three hours. Dawn ascends. He usually goes to the gym first thing in the morning—to, you know, commune with the folks. Schmuck.
Off in the eastern sky, sidled up to the rising sun, golden arches light up.
“Kurt!” I whisper.
"Psshht! Shut up!”
“You hungry?”
No response.
I always get the Egg McMuffins and the Egg Biscuits mixed up. Kurt wanted a sausage biscuit with egg and cheese. I wanted an Egg McMuffin with bacon and cheese.
I messed up the order. I accidentally ordered on Kurt's behalf a bacon biscuit with egg and cheese. And then I remember the Star of David that Kurt kissed before raising his gun's stock to his cheek. No way he wanted a bacon biscuit with egg. And even if it were bacon, he wouldn't be caught dead eating it with dairy. If he wasn't keeping kosher, I'd keep it for him. That's what being a good caddy is all about. So I returned to get him a sausage biscuit with egg (and no cheese).
By the time I got back, a disheveled Kurt was staring daggers at me. It turned out that our stiff came into his sights but Kurt got trigger jitters. I wasn't there to—no pun intended—egg him on. I was beyond upset.
Not only did we not get our kill, but Kurt didn't get his bacon or cheese.
"You miss one-hundred percent of the shots you don't take,” I said.
He threw the sandwich in my face.
“Kurt. Arnie Palmie?”
Kurt.
I don't know how much longer I can do this. The pay is outstanding but the moral blowback is the equivalent of union dues or wages garnished from outstanding parking violations on the unmarked van. That, and I don't need sharpshooters hating my guts. I got a girlfriend. She's in her late thirties.
I can't just quit. I can't. So much of the world’s clockwork rides on us.
Release the slide to cleanse inside
Prepare to anoint
Snap the tongue-in-groove discharge
To make my hallowed point
__Hallowed Point, Slayer (from the 1990 album Seasons in the Abyss)
I shed no tears for the buried ones
The ones I lay to rest
Don't ever question why I kill
Just know I do my best
__Kill on Command, Vio-Lence (From the 1988 album Eternal Nightmare)
Some people dub me coward. Others armchair quarterback. That I like. I always felt I would make an outstanding quarterback, except I wouldn't be able to throw the ball all that well. But I would still win Vince Lombardi trophies.
Because if there was a quarterback helper, like a quarterback caddy—or eighthback—a guy who made suggestions to the quarterback—I'd be MVP. Of course I wouldn't throw the ball to the receivers or a running back dipping out for a screen pass. I would be the guy tagging along behind the quarterback, going, “Tom! Over there! He's wide open!” “Peyton! Watch your blind side! Oof! [I block a rushing defensive end, thereby enabling Peyton to launch an 80-yard bomb].” “Patrick! Why'd you throw that interception? This is the big leagues!” In other words, I'm the perfect whisper-over-the-shoulder guy.
All this can be done remotely, to be sure. Hence the offensive coordinator in the earpiece, or in our case the triangulators scouting the premises for the sniper to make the optimal kill shot. But the intangibles are manifold: barometric pressure, sniper's sympathetic nervous system readout, unforeseen obstacles outside the purview of all remote surveillance, sniper diaper swap-out—
You may have reservations about hiring me to take out your former boss, your ex-husband, the Instagram booty influencer you can't stand. But know this: the success rate of those whom I caddy for is almost impeccable.
No one plays with a sub-10 handicap.
Thank you for reading Third-Eye LASIK.
My new novel Crushed Trachea Blues is available. It's a fun, zany murder mystery featuring MMA, AI Charles Manson, and tacos. Get it in ebook or paperback.
"The world's oldest profession is not prostitution. It's being a pimp. First came pimp, then came prostitute."
Iceberg Slim would agree with you- he had to make his girls do tricks before they gave him money.