Billy and the eBay Caper: Part Three

Part One, Part Two

We're at the eBay website, typing up the particulars for the auction.

Luckily, I've already sold a few things here before, so I don't need to run the gauntlet of filling out all the online forms again. Posting the photos of Billy, that's no difficulty either. But the problem is, I'm having trouble filling out the sale description reliably. What I'm typing - it's too hammy, doesn't sound right. Something. It's just not legit. I realize I need the mind of a lesser talent.

"Billy," I say. "Do your thing." This is what he manages:

PLEASE HELP ME. IVE FELT NOTHING IN MY HEART FOR A VERY LON TIME NOW NOTHING TO KEEP ME GOING ECEPT MY JOB DRIVING MY TUCK AND I LOST THAT JOB TODAY ANYWAYS. EVEN MY DOG "SPARK" RAN AWAY FROM HOME NOT TOO LONG AGO SO IDONT EVEN HAVE HIM FOR COMPANY EITHER. "LONG STORY SHORT" I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO LIVE FOR ANYMORE, AND NO MONEY ANYWAYS EVEN IF I DO. MY PLAN IS TO OFF MYSELF WITH MY NIFE BECAUSE IVE ALWAYS WANTED TO GO THAT WAY I HEARD ITS LIKE GOING TO SLEEP. IVE EVENTRIED IT A FEW TIMES AND IT DOESN'T HURT TO BAD. BUT IF MAYBE ENOUGH PEOPLE BID ON MY ACUTION I COULD MAKE ENOUGH MONEY TO GO HOME AND LIVE WITH MY MOM AGAIN INSTEAD.

YOURS SINCERLY, BILLY

"Excellent," I say, tenting my fingers.

But two days go by, with no bids offered to save Billy's life. Oh, plenty have stopped at the webpage to see what was for sale, but with millions of users on eBay at any given time, there's bound to be a few random tire kickers clicking on the auction to see what the hell might be for sale. 58 page views and no bids are not going to put me on easy street. I appraise Billy's pictures with my director's eye; I understand that he must be responsible somehow. The photos of his arms in particular are pitiful; the cuts he made appear to be mere cat scratches. Contempt soaks my soul. Billy, you fool. The masses need more than this. I begin to empathize with their disinterest; what an amateurish attempt this must seem like. Time is flying on the auction; I feel the urgent need to change the formula. I order Billy downstairs again.

"This time, you're going to be handcuffed in a chair, with a homemade 'suicide device' in the picture, standing beside you, got it? It's a jar with floor cleaner in it," I say.

"Floor cleaner? Handcuffs? What the fuck is that for? Why can't I just pose with my knife?"

"Because, it has to look like the process can't be stopped, that you can't cop out of it somehow. Nobody takes cutters seriously, it's the route taken by teenage girls who want attention. You're just laughed at Billy, you're worth no money. We'll put a clock here beside you, like a countdown.

"People love deadlines, Bill. You should know this, goddammit.

"We're going to tape a length of aquarium hose to your arm like an I.V., with a big red button beside your finger to 'activate the I.V. drip', just like the Jack Kevorkian machine. We're going to say on the auction that poison will enter your bloodstream once you hit that button. It's more pitiful and eye-catching than a knife in your hand," I say. "It's more eventual and gradual, yet inevitable. Tubes, tape, the staring eyes -- there's something about prolonging the process that tugs on the old heartstrings. Think about that Schiavo woman, the press she got. This is the method for success, I'm certain."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Get in the chair."

I take the photos. I feel a hand on the back of my head, like someone is touching me, but I shoo it away. Not now, dammit. I need to concentrate. Focus. The payoff will be worth it, I can feel it.

"Stop giggling, Billy. Suicide is supposed to make you feel bad," I say.

Part Four