Billy and the eBay Caper: Part Two

Part One

It's simple, really. Complete with lunatic dialogue and fearful photographs, I'm going to threaten to kill myself in front of millions of people, right on eBay - unless I get paid enough money to stop me, of course. With the appropriate preparation and media seeding, I'm going to hold myself hostage, and the world will pay me off. A person would have to be a madman, some kind of unhinged maniac to want to participate in a plan like this.

"But I want to be the guy killing himself!" Billy yelled. "It's my camera!"

In Canada, there is no fine, no law, no jail sentence preventing anyone from committing suicide if they so desire. It stands to reason that there is no penalty for one to threaten suicide, either. It makes sense, when one thinks about it academically for a moment. What can the authorities do - press charges against a dead body? If a man wants to off himself, by god, he's going to do it no matter what it says on a sheepskin.

"If a guy attempts suicide and he lives, he should be charged with the death penalty!" Billy hollered.

Billy is fortunate to have a job; he drives a truck for a living. He has a physical appearance so deranged, he was once kicked out of an ice-cream parlour because the jockey behind the counter thought he might be a child-molesting retard who was featured on the evening news. Or that he was merely mentally unstable, and therefore a threat to the customers. Or both, it doesn't really matter; people instinctively recognize Billy as That Weird Guy Over There, and they avoid him accordingly. The impression he leaves is like the vague rubber-diaper smell of the Special Ed wing of a public school, an air about him that says Look Anywhere But in My Eyes.

"For fuck sakes, I wanna do it!" Billy pouts.

So I have no problem at all with him wanting to be posted online as the "suicidal" eBay deviant who wants money to not kill himself. I don't want my face on the internet, after all - that had been a sort of final option idea from the outset. And using Billy instead of me is dandy because I believe his sagging, simian features are ideal for this kind of treatment. As I've already talked about, he has a look to him more believable as a man on the edge than I would be. More legitimate. It will be good theatre to use him, is what I'm driving at. Besides, his camera work is bound to stink, and I want the photography as convincing as possible.

Billy is it. I congratulate myself on the selection. This is going to work, goddammit. Has to. The hounds of creditors are on my trail, and no amount of whiskey is cleansing the desperate scent of long-outstanding debt from my body. They're getting closer, and I need a wade through a swamp to throw them off for a bit. Back off! For a while, at least. I need to regroup. Time to get my head together, is all.

We arrange things in the living room, against the wall with the water stain. It looks more pitiful that way, I reason. Billy can't wait for his star treatment. Billy has trouble remembering long sentences, so I begin to rap orders at him, machine-gunning the phrases in quick sound bites for easy comprehension:

"Okay, the auction can be modified later on as it gets closer to the closing date. We'll put updated pictures on it as time goes by. Mess your hair up. Like you've been drinking. Good. Take off that Homer Simpson sweatshirt. We don't want them laughing. You have to be depressed. Pitiful. Put on something dirty, cheap," I bark.

Billy takes off his sweatshirt, revealing an audaciously tacky Hooters t-shirt. In all of existence, the only men who wear Hooters shirts are those who never get to touch actual hooters. He's coat-rack skinny, and this is excellent. Looking him over, I don't want to jinx myself by counting the potential dollars the auction will earn; he looks that terrible. I arrange our lampshade to focus a dim light down at him, to accentuate the misery of his features.

"Maybe you could take a few shots of my wrists?" Billy says. "I was a cutter in high school."

My god - he was a cutter! A natural talent! I grimace inwardly for never having noticed his arms -- details! Everything has to be perfect! -- but thinking it over, I forgive myself because I remember that barely even look at his face. And yes, there they are: the clean white lines, laddering down his forearm where he'd no doubt attempted to garner attention from some valueless gothic tramp. But I frown; the scars look too old to be credible...

"I can freshen them up a bit," Billy offers.

Perfect. Use the chef knife.

Part Three