Kill Macy Gray

Man A: I’d kill Macy Gray

Man B: Really? Why’s that?

Man A: I dunno. She’s a bit annoying I suppose.

Man B: Bit of a rubbish reason for wanting someone dead.

Man A: Hmm.

Man B: and how would you do it?

Man A: What do you mean how would I do it?

Man B: She’s a famous American singer, she’s probably got a huge entourage of monstrous bouncers and security people.

Man A: She WAS a famous singer. She’s done nothing since ‘I Try’. I heard she was down and out living in a grotty bedsit somewhere begging for change.

Man B: Logistically speaking she still lives on the other side of the world. It’d make the act of murdering her a long weekend trip, at least.

Man A: Not following you.

Man B: If you were to kill, say, Ian Botham, he’s in the same country as you, so therefore easier to get at from purely a travel management point of view. Shoot up the A1 and back, you could do it in a day.

Man A: True. On the other hand I think he’d be harder. For one thing he’s a large man and a sportsman to boot.

Man B: An ex-sportsman, and he’s let himself go. He wouldn't be expecting it, you'd have the element of surprise.

Man A: I’ll take my chances with Gray thanks. She’s looking pretty frail, I reckon I could take her. And I hate to say this being a woman and me being a man....

Man B: Having her in a fight isn’t killing her though. It wouldn't be easy, it'd take planning, I doubt you have it in you.

Man A: No.

Man B: Well, what’s your big idea hotshot?

Man A: Oh, doesn’t she just die.

Man B: No, the question was 'If you had to kill someone famous who would YOU kill?'

Man A: - I’d book myself on the next flight out to LA. Packing a big suitcase, making it look like I was a tourist. I’d get myself some naff clothes from the airport, ‘I heart LA’, that kind of thing. I’d get myself on one of those tours of the stars’ homes, snapping every wrought iron gate with my oversized camera, I wouldn’t even need film inside. I’d find her place and wait. I’d watch her movements, If anyone caught me, they’d think I was a fan or, at worst, a stalker or paparazzi. When she was alone I’d go up to her house and pretend to be a delivery person, a plain polo shirt with any laminated piece of plastic pinned to it would be enough too create the right impression, then I’d bash her head in on the doorstep with my concealed hammer and walk away. No motive, no conviction. That’s if I wanted to get away with it, I could just sit there in her blood waiting for the police to come, admiring my mental handy work, otherwise I could be on a plane out of there within the next few hours. Home and dry. - Happy?

Man B: Not really.

Man A: Stupid question

Man B: Yeah, I suppose it was.