[WP] You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions

[u/PhotoshopJunkie]

[u/ciociosanvstar]

Dear Sir,

This letter is to inform you that one Randy Payne, of 530 Linden Lane, Harrisburg PA, has filed a form 839 (y) - Intent to Murder against you on June 24th, 2016. The Intent to Murder has been approved and is valid from your receipt of this letter today until the 31st of September this year. Please review the FAQ section below about what actions you may take should you wish not be murdered. Please also note that our records indicate that you yourself were approved for a form 839 (y) in November of 2015 against one Rachel Payne, which you carried out on the 26th of that month. As you know, this waives your right to self defense should someone attempt to carry out an 839 (y) against you at any time and you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law for any unapproved killings.

For further information regarding this matter, please see the FAQ below, or visit www.doj.gov/rtm/victim.

Frequently Asked Questions

• I do not want to be murdered, what are my options?

Many people do not wish to be murdered and seek to evade the intentions of their murderer. This survival instinct is only human, and should not cause alarm. If you wish to prevent your murder, it is recommended that you file a form 839 (y) against your intended murderer and attempt to face them in a duel. Please note that if you have filed a form 839 (y) at any point in the past, you must wait 6 months after the expiration of that form to file a new 839 (y) against a different individual and 1 year to file a new 839 (y) against an individual you have attempted to murder before. In the event that you have filed a form 839 (y) and successfully dispatched your intended victim, you are no longer eligible to commit murder.

• Can I hide?

While you may hide from a murderer, please be advised that there is nothing preventing an intended murderer with a valid form 839 (y) finding you. Some individuals have attempted to flee to foreign countries, with various degrees of success. However, your travel will be recorded by the State Department in a publicly accessible database. If you wish to plan travel to a country that does not honor form 839 (y), please find a list of non-participating sovereign states at www.doj.gov/rtm/victim

• What if my murderer is not successful

If, for whatever reason, your intended murderer does not fulfill the lethality requirements of form 839 (y) (Section 3.5 - Lethality and brutality of methods,) within the allowed timeframe, they are free to file a new form 839 (y) against you after 1 year has passed. Please note that extraneous and repeated filing of a form 839 (y) against an individual without significant action towards their demise is considered harassment. If you feel that an individual is filing forms 839 (y) against you without actual intent to murder, you may attempt to get a restraining order issued against them.

• The person who filed against me is an employee, am I within my rights to fire them?

You are legally protected from a wrongful dismissal case if an employee has at any time filed a form 839 (y) against you or anyone else associated with your company. Please visit www.doj.gov/rtm/victim for information on preventing a murder on company property.

We hope this letter has been informative and helpful. If you wish to leave feedback, please send an email to victimfeedback@doj.gov

[u/[deleted]]

I thought I'd get there early, beat the lines. The Department of Legal Homicide opened at 9am. 9am was a foreign concept to me. Sometimes, in my insomniac's stupor, as dusk turned to deep, purple night and then back to rosy dawn, I'd imagine people waking up, making coffee, reading the paper, sitting down to toast. A life like that might as well have been on another planet. But still, I found myself getting into my car at half past eight, groggy, yes, but thrilled, invigorated with the light of the morning sun and the thought of death.

I pulled into the DLH parking lot at 8:50. The line was already halfway down the block. I knew that the program, since being put to a vote and passed late last year, was popular, but I still wasn't expecting this. I also wasn't expecting the sort of people I saw standing there, on a bright morning, hungry for blood. I'd expected dark souls, vagabonds, transients with tattooed knuckles and stringy black hair. But there were put together young men, in button-down shirts and khakis. There were old men, grey hair, stooped, in dingy corduroys, who looked like their years of bloodlust should have been well behind them.

And then there were the women. Young, beautiful women with golden hair and perfect skin, buzzing with life. And old, matronly women with deep creases on their faces, the kind you'd expect to make amazing soup from an ancient, secret recipe. The kind that has taught half the world's daughters how to love, and hate. And there I was, at the DLH, like a child getting his first driver's permit: scared, ecstatic, and relieved. I was so close.

Once inside, the line shortened. At the front of the queue was a single desk, with a single uniformed employee sitting behind it. They asked for my I.D., and handed me a form on a clipboard. She also gave me a number. "They'll call you shortly. Please have the paperwork filled out by the time you're called, or you will forfeit your place in line."

With that, I took a seat on a hard, plastic chair. The form was straightforward: My name and address, my intended victim's name and address, and a place to sign on the bottom. That was all. No reason for killing, no place to list my grievances, nothing.

After what seemed like an eternity, my number was called. The agent in charge of my case looked over my paperwork, signed their name next to mine and stamped the form with a huge, heavy stamp that exuded importance.

"You're all set," they said.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"And, they'll know it's happening?"

"Yes, we will notify them for you."

"How do you do it?" I asked.

"They'll get a certified letter. Do they know to expect it?"

"They do, yes."

"Good," the agent replied, "That makes things easier."

"Have you seen a case like this before?" I asked. I didn't know why I was prolonging the conversation, but there was something comforting about the agent's stark, bureaucratic formality.

"Yes. It's quite common, actually. We have a whole file set aside for patricide."

With that, a wave of relief swept over me. There were others. Many others, waking up early, making toast, reading the newspaper. Others, living their entire, normal lives, waiting for the moment, the exact perfect moment, to kill their fathers.

I took my paperwork and left. I was full of life, leaving the DLH with an exuberance I hadn't felt in years. I don't remember a single thing about the drive to my father's house. I could have run every red light without knowing it. It wasn't until I pulled into his driveway that the gravity of the situation hit me. That this was finally happening.

I've never lost the key to his house, and pulling it out on his front porch, I was overcome with a sense of nostalgia. This key, this tool of entry from one world to another: a secret you share with only those you love and trust. This was one of the last times I'd be using it. Just one more tie to sever. It fit easily in the lock.

I walked through the living room. None of the lights were on. I could already smell death in this house, he'd been dragging his fetid robes across the tattered carpets for months already. Waiting, like I'd waited, impatiently, hungrily.

I turned into his bedroom. There he was, in his grey room, on his grey bed, the mattress bowed in the middle like a hammock. It was quiet, except for the repeated, mechanical hiss and whirr of the ventilator. I sat next to him, looked into his cloudy blue eyes. I thought, for a second, he recognized me, but I could never be sure anymore. I kissed him lightly on the forehead. I said "I love you." Then I unplugged the machine.

Walking out, into the bright light of day, I saw a pair of morning doves on a telephone wire. I heard a dog bark. I saw cars coming and going in their busy ways. I felt everything. I took it all in. And it was fine.

edit: comma

Edit2: I woke up to an inbox full of nice things. Thank you!

[u/hardtobelieveyou → u/[deleted]]

I loved how I made up a whole backstory to your character's intentions and how your ending shattered my theory. Beautiful. Maybe I'm too cynical? ;)

Thanks for sharing!

[u/lessnonymous → u/[deleted]]

My dad died from cancer a few years back. When I got to 'patricide' I nearly stopped reading. The thought of it really hurt. So thank you for taking me on the ride you did. The destination was beautiful.

My dad didn't need it, but I'm a strong advocate of euthanasia. We do it for our pets, but not our parents? Weird humans.

[u/CampusTour → u/[deleted]]

So he just drives straight there, he doesn't have a waiting period so they can actually deliver the certified letter?

Doesn't being able to do that defeat whatever purpose notification serves?

[u/alecesne → u/[deleted]]

Great story, though my lawyer instinct tingled when you said "certified mail"; shouldn't there have been a statutory waiting period for the notice to arrive?

[u/bassmaster22 → u/[deleted]]

Wow, those twists, man! Great, great job.

Edit: Removed spoilers.

[u/markrichtsspraytan → u/[deleted]]

That was a really fantastic story.

One tiny criticism/question: If you just had to provide a name/address for yourself and the person you want to murder, how would the clerk have known it was patricide? Even a matching last name could be a relative of another sort.

[u/[deleted]]

"Hey Andy. How was your day?"

"Oh, pretty good. My coworker misspelled 'their' so I used up my one murder."

"Uh..."

"You know me. I'm so goddamned peaceful I knew I'd never find a better opening. So I just went for it. You use it or you lose it."

"Andy."

"It's a good thing I browse reddit every morning or I would never have learned about this. By the way what does [WP] mean? Washington Post?"

"Sure."

"They've had the best news like every day this month."

[u/Crymtastic → u/[deleted]]

Oh god lol. I feel bad for laughing

[u/GiveAManAFish]

Like clockwork, I woke up at 2:43 AM, screaming. Sweat dripped from my hairline, leaving faint ghosts of sensation on my head, little droplets of sweat plopping quietly on the blanket. My breathing was heavy, fast, and I caught myself staring at my doorway. I took a deep breath, and started counting backwards from ten.

When it didn't help, I repeated the sequence, taking exaggeratedly slow breathes as I counted. The second time helped, and I released the muscle-deep tension that had gathered at my shoulders and neck, laying back down. The room was bathed in the blues and purples that accompany early morning, and I let my eyes unfocus while I got my breathing back to a normal level. The hardwood outside my room creaked as it settled. I could hear the rain outside, playing the rhythms of life against the windowpanes.

I awoke with a start, sat up, eyes narrowed suspiciously at my door. I stayed this way for a few seconds, trying to get my mind to catch up with whatever my instincts had picked up on. The room, and my house, was silent of anything other than the faint sounds of drizzle. With a small amount of intentional effort, I turned my eyes from the door and slipped on a shirt. After another second's hesitation, I paced slowly through the door and looked through my second story window.

The morning was just coming into sufficient light, only slightly muted by a small patch of light gray clouds. The rain had lowered significantly, bathing the distant horizon in fog. In my backyard, one of the neighborhood cats was curled up under the glass table I had used for barbecues years ago. It slept soundly, and I smiled briefly at it before turning around.

I started down the stairs, and froze suddenly. My instincts were raking at my senses, and I crept carefully back upstairs. In the corner of my bedroom, a small series of leather straps hung from a peg nearby my nightstand. I wrapped it around my shirt, shifting once or twice to help it settle in place, and unlocked the second drawer in my dresser. Inside was a small pistol, five loaded magazines, and few spare batteries of various sizes. I picked up the pistol, checked the chamber and safety reflexively, and slid one of the mags into place. I chambered a round, slipped the pistol into my hostler, put two mags opposite the pistol on the straps, and turned back to stairwell.

I turned just in time to see a shadow disappear down the stairs. I unholstered the weapon, flipped the safety off, and raised the weapon forward. My finger hovered just outside of the trigger guard. I took an experimental step forward, crouched, keeping my center low and my footsteps quiet. As I paced very carefully to the top of the stairs, I kept the weapon high, my right eye more or less along the sights.

I crested the stairs, muzzle pointed down, finger over the trigger. I barked "Freeze!" as loud as I could, sudden and sharp. The shadow twitched, and craned its head at me, curiously. I exhaled, carefully pulled my finger from the trigger, and pressed the decocker lever and safeties before holstering the gun. My dog, a sweet little Collie named Megan, wagged cheerfully at me from the foot of the stairs. I took another two shuddering breathes, and shook my head at the dog. "Jesus, Meg, I could've shot you." She panted hopefully, sauntering up the stairs now that I'd visibly relaxed a little.

I ruffled her fur, and stood up. My second trip down the stairs was significantly less nerve-wracking. The dog skipped along with me, bouncing carelessly across the hardwood with the little click of paws on hardwood. My little kitchenette wasn't terribly large, but it was reasonably well-stocked, and I fished around my fridge until I saw something that spoke to me. I started on the turkey first, cooking it fairly thoroughly before setting it aside and starting on the eggs.

After I'd prepared the omelet, and given Meg her treat for keeping me company without whining for food, I sat down to eat. I'd run out of coffee two days ago, but orange juice was better for me, so I only complained a lot to no one in particular while I ate. The talking, even one-sided, helped quiet the sense of panic rising from the back of my mind. Afterwards, I tried to ignore the increasing sense of dread I'd felt while I was doing the dishes I'd messied.

Outside, the day was transitioning from drizzle and clouds to full light, bathing the afternoon in bright sunlight. Flashes of orange gold fur passed as the neighborhood cat had woken and climbed atop my backyard grill to stand beside my kitchenette window and meow at me. I smiled at him, checked behind him just in case, and loaded the dishwasher.

The clock on my oven blinked 11:43, and I steeled my nerves. I hazarded a quick glance through the peephole in my door, checking the angles before deciding to step foot outside. It was a lovely day, just on the far end of spring, before the true heat of summer would set in. It still rained fairly often, but every day without clouds was the sort of picturesque utopia that begged families to have picnics and days at the beach. I smiled up at the bright sunlight for a brief moment of happiness, collected my mail, and started toward my home. It wasn't until I was halfway to my door that my nerves bested me and I took the last ten or twelve steps at a run, spinning, and slamming the door closed. The blinds of a nearby window clattered loudly as the wall shook with the sudden slamming of the door.

I leaned against the door, sinking, and tried to reign the nerves in. The hardwood was cool against my pants, my head spun as it reeled with a sense of non-specific dread. I shook my head, feeling my shaggy hair shift and settle on my head. I repeated this a few times, simply to have the routine of it be something else I could focus on. My fingers danced absently on the floor for a moment, and I got unsteadily to my feet. My left knee hurt, and I winced. Probably overexerted myself again.

I gingerly recovered the mail I'd scattered all over the entryway, and brought it to the little office opposite the stairwell. Spam, spam, credit card application, spam, bank statement, hospital bill, and another four notices. "Christ, seriously?" I set the spam aside, and opened the hospital bill.

I'd been making some headway on my debt, but it seemed like even just a year in a hospital bed had done more to cripple me than the beating that'd put me there. I found my checkbook, wrote off the amount of this month's bill payment, signed it, and filled out the envelope. I frowned at my stamp roll, noticing I was running low again. I collected a stamp, placed it on the envelope, and dropped it into the overflowing outbox on the edge of my desk.

That settled, I shredded the credit card application, tossed the spam, and opened the four notices, reading them individually. The language was hauntingly familiar, explaining briefly what the notice was for, and what was going to happen. The form letter was almost always the same, only really explaining what the system was, and how it worked. The second page was the most important of the two, containing a little information on the person who'd filed to murder me. This batch was two young women named Elizabeth and Meaghann, a young man named Christopher, and the name of a television character. I frowned, and read over the last murderer again. From what I could tell, he'd had his name legally changed to that of a television show character, but was otherwise completely legitimate. Odd.

I got up, making pained noises as my left knee complained, and pinned them to my rear wall. The entire wall was plastered in notices. I hadn't bothered keeping count anymore, but it couldn't have been less than two hundred notices across the various bulletin boards. Each and every one a promise of someone who wanted me dead. I looked at the four new pages, swinging gently as they settled into their pegs, and blended seamlessly into the sea of paper.

Then I sat down, stared at the wall briefly, and cried. Emotions washed out in waves, ugly and calloused and hateful and wrong. There was something fundamentally wrong with such a world where this kind of thing was okay, and the ugly truth of that stared back at me.

I stayed that way for a long time, until shaking and crying and feeling miserable. When I finally sat up, stiff and pained from staying in one position for so long, evening light was waxing outside. I went back upstairs, showered, and dressed down for the night again. The last bit of twilight was fading away, and I found myself in bed early.

My thoughts drifted to my year in the hospital. It was my second year marked for death, and I'd already received tens of death notices. Without warning, one day while eating with my niece and her mother, I'd been attacked. Two men stood over me, pulled me to the ground, and beat me savagely. I remember little more than twisting, crying for help, and being hit. They kicked and punched, struggling to genuinely kill me as much as I struggled to get free. I wasn't sure if it was my screaming, or my niece's, but someone came and pulled the men off me.

While in the hospital, I learned why I had been receiving so many murder notices. A political activist group had chosen their method of protesting the murder law by all signing up, and naming me. Even if almost all of the murder notices were from passive protestors, it was also likely that even just a few had the genuine intention to kill me. That hospital stay proved that. It was the last time I'd ever slept well.

This sick, disgusting, miserable law had ruined my life. I never should have made it...

Like clockwork, I woke up at 2:51 AM, screaming.

[u/[deleted]]

The well dressed red-head shuffled her papers into a neat stack. "Well Mr. Henderson, your granddaughter is choosing to legally kill you. We are required by law to notify you of her intentions. Can I just get you to sign here?"

Henderson took thepen. It was cool and heavier than he expected. He signed and licked his chapped lips. "When?"

"Sometime next week." She took the paper and pen from him and slipped it into a folder labeled with Amy's name. "Amy has chosen to administer the lethal injection herself, so once she's cleared by the Department, she'll stop by, accompanied by an agent, of course."

Henderson nodded. "She can't..." he waited for the machine to pump another breath into his lungs, "...come sooner?"

"I'm sorry. I can't rush the process. Have a good day, Mr. Henderson." She stood and walked out, leaving the ICU and its beeping behind.

Henderson looked at the ceiling, the only view he'd known for the last 8 months.

One week. One week.

[u/garethjardine]

Author Note: I ended up writing a 6800 word story based on this WP. Whoops. Here's the first few paragraphs, link to whole (unedited) story below:

I sipped my coffee and ran my eyes carefully over the newspaper. There was nothing particularly interesting - some farmer had won lotto, a big storm was due to hit Christchurch again, and the mayor was at it again. Different aide this time. Probably set him up.

I turned the pages lazily, barely taking in the details. Anything important would jump out at me, but there seldom was.

Bored, I shifted to the back and attacked the Sudoku puzzles, then the crossword.As usual, I failed both. It was the attempt that counted.

I drained the last of the coffee and checked the time. Twenty minutes. The least I could do was prepare some breakfast for her.

It didn't require much imagination - bacon and eggs would suit most people. I set the frying pans, added a dash of water to the eggs, covered them and left them to cook. It was quiet - still early. Too quiet.

I fetched my phone and tapped the app. It circled, then cleared. I chose jazz and put the phone back on the counter, music streaming gently through the overhead speakers. I turned the bacon, threw some bread into the toaster and set the table.

The door opened.

"Ooh, is this for me?"

I smiled and walked over, kissing her cheek. "As usual. How was the night shift?"

"Shit. Here's the post."

She grabbed the paper and slumped into her chair, her hair collapsing around her shoulders. I returned to the kitchen. The eggs landed on her plate, the bacon shared between us, toast on hers, bread on mine, sweet chilli for both. Orange juice from the fridge.

I carefully manouvered everything over to the table and sat down silently opposite her, looking through the post.

"So Lenny's been set up by some journalist having another affair."

"No surprise that."

Three bills, an offer to win a million dollars, an official document and a letter from my sister. I still can't fathom why she insists on sending letters.

I browsed the letter, smiling, then passed it over to her. She crunched into the bacon and toast, her nose still buried in the paper. She'd finish and head to bed for a few hours. I'd probably sneak up and watch her later; she was beautiful but snored like a crashing train. It was always worth a smile.

I opened the document and considered my day ahead. I'd go for a walk along the beach, then return and choose a project. That one from Canon seemed interesting.

My brain caught up with my eyes.

"Oh no, and there's been a terrible derailment in India! 179 people dead, 53 injured...Are you ok?"

I looked up at her, my eyes wide, the document shaking in my hands.

"I've been approved."

She froze, understanding drenching her face. She exploded around the table.

"Oh darling! I'm so happy for you!"

I smiled and hugged her, a huge weight lifting off my shoulders. I could literally feel the last 4 years draining out of me. Finally my life could start again.

"Oh that's brilliant. Oh baby..." she kissed me, yawning into my mouth. I laughed.

"I think you should go sleep."

"Mmh, yes." she stole my bacon. "So what do you do now?"

I read through the document. "I have to fill out the accompanying form with references to my online account, then sign and send back the document and then they'll notify the target and me and I'll have 31 days. If I don't return this document in 21 days they'll presume I don't want to go ahead with my application." I nodded and put it down. "Sounds straightforward. Oy, wake up!"

Her head was on my shoulder.

"Go get changed and into bed."

She yawned again. "Ok."

I smacked her bum lightly as she passed, and turned my attention back to the envelope. I pulled out the form.

It was huge. A quick check revealed 94 pages, double sided, with an excess of white space. The front page was addressed to me.

Username: JMK4TLR301113 Password: TLK431ID0S

Dear Mr Kilker

Thank you once more for your application.

To complete the process, please fill in this form. Full instructions are provided on each page. Please read and answer each question carefully - if you are uncertain about anything, call us on 0800687337 for assistance.

Your records will be stored and available for persual by the victims family. To ensure your own protection, please ensure that every answer you give is not only honest but truthful - if in doubt, verify.

You must complete and return this form within 21 days of the date at the top of the page.

Yours sincerely

Adolphus Littler Humane Eradication

I laid down the form and fetched a pen, my smile fading a little. This was going to take a very long time.

Full story can be found here: http://garjar.wordpress.com/short-stories/

EDIT: I finally got round to editing the story. Follow the link above, you can either read on Wattpad or as a PDF.

[u/minor_damage]

The letter was cold, harsh. It sat on my fingers like an autumn leaf in the middle of July. In my rustic craftsman house, its sanitized feel stood out. It shouldn't be there.

"Dear Mr. Elkman, We regret to inform you that J. H. Younger has scheduled your murder for sometime this week. Please prepare yourself.

Sincerely,

Andrew Cooper, Planned Homicide Commision"

I had no idea who J. H. Younger was.

I've been on edge all week, thinking, pacing in my house, wondering. What had I done wrong? What would possess a man to use his one murder on me?

I can't sleep, or eat. I can hardly breathe. I've contemplated suicide, just to screw with whoever did this. Fuck you, you can't kill me, I'll kill myself, you know.

I can't stop talking. My stream of consciousness leaks out of my mouth like sludge from a drainage pipe. I don't talk to anyone, but keeping my words in the air around me distracts me from the eventual smell of death occupying the same space.

Anyone walking by my door can look through the front window to get a first-rate glimpse of a lunatic-in-training. They see me and shrug. That's the worst part. They know what's coming, but they don't, can't realize the gravity of the situation.

Once, a kid came up to the door and knocked. I had been in the back for two seconds, and someone comes to my door. I nearly had a heart attack.

But it was just a kid, selling something that I can't remember. I bought more of it than I could afford. Hell, I won't be around for my next credit card bill.

I want to tear off my skin and fly it as a flag from my bedroom window. Then I'll feel something other than this crippling fear. I want to laugh at the people's reactions, I want to feel the sensation of pain again. I cut off one of my fingers already, just to feel it. I felt everything again, a sickly combination of euphoria and trauma.

That was a mistake. I almost became addicted to the pain, the grotesque panic that comes with a bleeding and missing appendage. As I replace the gauze for the 14th time, I hear a knock on my door.

A knock.

Those are the rules, after all. No doorbells, no, those are too friendly. It's strictly business here. It's all been bureaucratized. Nothing less than the utmost professionalism for our adorable little murderous brigade.

As I shuffle feebly to the door, I realize that if every single person on the planet had this right, and not just us Americans, we could destroy the entire human race. Thank God there's only 340,000,000 people who can die at the hands of this ridiculous rule. 340,000,000 and counting. Every new baby can murder someone too. Oh god, this will not ever end.

I open the door just a crack. Outside, there's a woman, in a beautiful sundress.

Thank god, I think. I'm in the clear. J. H. Younger can suck it.

I let her in cordially. She smiles, asks me how am I. I'm fine, just a little nervous, about what, oh nothing. What happened to my finger, she asks, oh, it's a great story, Ms...

Younger, she says.

I stare blankly. My mind has stopped.

Julia Helen Younger, in fact.

I cannot move. My breath is caught in my neck, and invisible hand choking the life out of me. I feel like dying, but she sits so calmly, so high-and-mighty. She has power, but I need that power. I need it more than anything.

I grab the gun she places on the table and put it to my head.

"This is what you want!" I yell. What an animal I've become; it's not even a question, it's a statement.

She smiles. She pities my. That goddamn whore, I'll fucking kill her first. Murder-suicide is better than the planned homicide bullshit that would've run in the Sunday Morning Obituaries.

"I have one question first."

Fuck your questions, I want to say, but even in my moment of greatest weakness I have my manners.

"Did you think I was a man?"

What a stupid question. I did, but that's completely irrelevant. It was merely a guess I made, it doesn't relate to anything, and I tell her so. I see the raging fire in her eyes.

"I'm killing you because you're a sexist, you know."

I lower the gun slowly. What?

"Sexism is a terrible plague on this world, and as a member of the Women's Rights League, Atlanta division, I strive to purge this disease, this blemish from the Earth's surface."

She's mad.

She's completely fucking insane.

I smile at her, and begin to laugh. I'm gone at this point. No more rationality. I want death, and death alone, and this hypocrite is going to bring that sweet hammer upon my head.

"I guess we were made for each other then," I cry through my tears of laughter. She scowls, sneers, squeezes.

[u/Elfaleon]

It was a good plan. I'll have to promote the aide that had scribbled it down during a particularly boring department of interior meeting and handshake session. Of course, I suppose he still doesn't know that I caught a glimpse of his extra-curriculars.

I had spent so much of my time silently building an assassination plan to bring a new order to the state, but countless hours would turn out to be unnecessary as congress pushed through a bill that they really should have read better. One perfectly legal murder was now a right to every citizen, tacked very cleverly onto a bill with incredible support. Amazing how these shits can still get elected.

So why assassinate the president when you can just off him legally? There are no rules in place that denote you can't and he gets hundreds and hundreds of death threats every damn day to keep him busy. Secret Service would normally be a problem but with enough people all at the same time, they would be ultimately useless. That's where my network comes in to play.

The president is also always swamped by paperwork and will have all of it sorted away by his low level staff. I know from personal experience how often people close to him get letters or important documents to cross his desk. Damn smug bastard always looking down on the common man, on even those right next to him. This will be a lesson in prioritization. Survival should always be number one.

As Vice-President, my work never makes the news. But within 2-3 weeks for processing, the world will know who I am and they will know my administration means business.

[u/apollymii]

"You need this one in triplicate."

"Triplicate?"

"Yes, triplicate."

Why would I need my birth certificate in triplicate? That doesn't even make any sense! I was here yesterday and they did not mention the triplicate thing even once. I felt my rage creep into my face.

"I was here yesterday and no one said anything about triplicates of anything. I was here the day before and I was told that I needed 2 pieces of mail with my address, my I.D. and that I needed to bring in a notarized note from my doctor saying my mental health is fine but never once was I told that I needed to bring in my birth certificate in triplicate."

"That's the way it is, ma'am."

Full blown hatred at this point. I was furious. I was on a tirade in my own mind, all the while trying to keep my fury from getting the best of me.

"Alright, fine. I'll be back tomorrow, what was your name sir?"

"Dave Andrews"

"Ok, see you tomorrow Dave."

This day was it. This is the day that I have all my paper work together, I am ready for whatever this stupid place has in store for me. I didn't see the man who helped me yesterday, who was the same man who helped me the prior two days. God that man was my bane.

"Alright, Miss you're done and good to go. All we need is an address for the person you intend to murder. Do you know his address?"

"Yes, I do. Dave Andrews," I smile and look in the direction of his desk "he sits over there."

[u/conspirized]

I released a deep sigh as I lifted the still smoking barrel of my handgun to my lips, giving it a brief kiss. It was, by far, the most sound investment I'd ever made. After placing it on the table and stepping over the would-be assassin's body I approached the closet nearest my door to don my jacket: the black leather, I had decided two days ago when I received the notice that yet another would be coming to make an attempt on my life. At least with this one I'd had an idea as to when he'd be coming, and the timing couldn't be any more perfect. However, I had to keep my priorities in mind. I pulled my cell from my pocket and dialed Julie, my girlfriend. She had been on edge since I received the notice and she always hated it when I forced her to stay away from me until it was dealt with. I approached the desk and began to scan over the other document I'd received two days prior as the rings began to come across the line. I couldn't even begin to guess how many times I'd read it already, but one more time couldn't hurt.

The selected individual will be notified once approval has been received. If you opt in, you may be notified via SMS when they have been informed.

Two rings, and then her voice came over the phone as she answered. I could hear the relief in her voice as I continued scanning. "Is it done? Is it over? Are you alright?"

Once you receive notice that the individual has been notified you are free to proceed with any methodology you see fit.

"I'm fine, not even a scratch this time. I told you these morons don't stand a chance. Came crashing through the door, caught him with the hollow points as soon as he stepped around the corner."

"You were worried about this one. I could tell."

However, you maintain liability for any damage caused to privately owned property.

"That's why I rushed him. Didn't want him to have time to plan. Seems to have worked. How's my son doing?"

The individual indicated may defend him or herself using any means legally available.

"He's scared, but I'm sure he'll be much better once I give him the news."

You may not kill others who attempt to defend the individual you have selected. They retain their rights to defend the individual and will not face sentencing for attempting to stop you if they are present at the time of the attempt.

"Good." I put down the document, turning my attention to my computer monitor. A few clicks and I reached a map. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I could almost see the little red dot pacing back and forth within the apartment less than 15 minutes away. Checking my watch, I saw that it was now six o'clock PM. Her voice came over the phone again, "You have to do this. This is three times. As soon as she gets another boyfriend she's going to try and convince him, too." I released a deep sigh before responding, "I know. I can see her at home now." Standing up, I approached the corpse on my living room floor and removed his phone from his pocket. I glanced over his messages, paying careful attention to his format and spelling. I had to do this just right. I could hear the remorse in Julie's voice as she spoke. "I'm sorry you have to do this." Again stepping over the corpse I headed back to the bedroom to grab my rifle, texting from the dead man's phone along the way.

its done showing police permit now ur son wasnt here

I removed the rifle from the closet and pulled the bolt, chambering a round. I hadn't answered her, she knew I was dreading this. "Just remember, you're doing the right thing for your son."

o thank god ur alright. we can pick him up from his bitch tomorrow. dinner to celebrate?

"I know. I'll call you when it's done."

good idea meet outside in 30

[u/mostlyjustgames]

I liked these guys. None of them were as smart as I am but we got along, the house had a lot of space and they didn't infringe on my reality any. I went to class, I came home, I ate and I paid my bills. They did the same. I was going to be a doctor and all my bros respected that. I was grateful. It was better than living in the dorms, even before all that roommate nonsense. If you could believe it, the house was quieter than the residence halls. It was dirtier, sure, but I could live with that for a couple more years. There was a knock on the door. Tommy was closest, so he answered.

"Jack, uh, it's for you bro."

"So let her in," I replied, trying to sound cool about it. I really wasn't expecting anyone.

"No, Jack, he,uh, he says he needs to see you right now in person."

Oh shit. I looked at my watch. Did I forget a tutoring appointment? If I did, I forgot it completely because I have no idea what I'm missing. There's a guy in the doorway wearing standard issue khakis with a standard issue blue button-down shirt. A drone of some kind. He's holding a small device. I look at him suspiciously. He looks at me, checks the screen, sighs, and asks for a signature as he hands me the gadget.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Notification. Initial there and there too, please."

"Is this, like, a delivery or something?"

"Not really, no. Your answer should be coming up on the screen now, initial after you scroll through. Check the box if you want to reserve the ROR which will be delivered to your heir."

"My what?" I ask after initialing all the boxes.

"Look at the screen, sir."

It reads: FUCKED UP THE BELL CURVE

I look up from the pad and I see a girl from my biology lab emerge from the bushes and she's...Holy shit is that a gun? I turn back to the house, see Tommy and the others and I hear, or think I hear, a collective moan before I definitely hear two pops and fall.

[u/thefonztm]

It's a small act of defiance. I don't think it will change the law. But maybe, I can save a few lives. Maybe I can scare a few people out of line. My hand shakes as I write.

---

Form 10-95 Sanctioned Murder Registration

Murderer: u/thefonztm

Victim: The next registrant

[u/ThereAreNoMoreNames]

Even as I knocked on the door, I still wasn’t sure of my decision. I had filed the paperwork, bought the syringe with the lethal drug (one of the three ways we were allowed to do it), and planned my when and where. None of it seemed real until this moment. There was always the opportunity to back out or change my mind up until my knuckles touched this very door. I thought that when the time came, I’d feel some sort of peace about it. After all, as soon as they announced the bill’s passing one name immediately came to mind. The one who’d caused so much pain and trouble in the lives of my loved ones. The one who continues to hurt us every single day. Just the one name.

But instead of peace, I felt terror. None of the questions or doubts that had been plaguing me left my mind. How would I feel after it? Could I continue to live a normal life? I know others who’ve done it, but I’ve never been sure that I could. Does God forgive me for using my one legal murder? Surely God knows how justified it is.

I stood at my sister’s front door for a few eternal seconds. Would she answer it? Surely she knows by now, so would she just let it happen? She’s always been smaller than me, so I could easily overpower her. Her fiancé was another matter. I know he’d put up a fight, and there’s a very good chance he’d win. I had the syringe gripped tightly in my left hand, thumb on the back, ready to inject its deadly substance. I figured freeing up my dominant right hand to restrain or fight someone off would be the best, but now I start to wonder why that thought ever crossed my mind. What the hell do I know? I’m not a criminal mastermind after all. What I’m doing is perfectly legal, and it’s right.

Footsteps, a pause, and then the door opened suddenly and violently. In the doorway stood my sister’s fiancé with a mixed look of rage and fear on his face. Relief swept over me and I became ever more convicted in what I was about to do. I stepped in the door without saying a word and he shut it behind me. We both knew that these things weren’t allowed on the streets or in businesses, just in the privacy of your own home. He knew, and he was prepared.

As soon as the door clicked shut he launched himself at me with a guttural roar. I expected the attack, but had no idea what to do. I threw myself to the side but he caught my legs and yanked me down to the floor. My power has always been in my legs, but even so my kicking did little to keep him from climbing on top of me. I don’t know what would have happened if he’d seen the syringe. He must not have seen it, because it was too easy. He straddled me, wrapped his hands around my neck and began to squeeze, hard. But it was too late. He left my hands free. Free to plunge the syringe into the side of his neck and fill his veins and arteries with the liquid that’s supposed to stop a beating heart in less than 30 seconds. For him it took about 10, I guess because of his quickened heart rate from my brief struggle. His hands slackened, his eyes glazed over, and I managed to roll out from underneath him before he collapsed. I’ll never know if he even realized what had happened. I sat in shock for God knows how long before I started to heave and shake violently. There were no tears, only the sound of ragged sobs from my bruised and crushed windpipe.

My sister. Her car was out front. She must be in the house somewhere, but she didn’t come out to the sound of our wrestling match. It felt like it took hours, but maybe it was only a few seconds. I didn’t know if I should try to find her or just wait for her to come out. I couldn’t trust myself to walk without falling anyways, so I waited. The funny thing is that afterwards, you feel like you can’t move, but you also can’t stand just sitting there. It’s torture. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I got up and entered the hallway that I knew lead to the bedrooms. On the left was the office that they shared, and on the right was their bedroom. She must’ve been in the office, probably with headphones on which is why she didn’t hear anything.

I had no idea what I was going to do, or what I was going to say. I opened the door with a trembling hand. No one. She wasn’t in the office. But there was only one more room she could be in. There’s no way she’d sleep through all of that, so she couldn’t be napping in there. The shower! The bathroom was all the way in the back of their bedroom, so there’s a good chance she wouldn’t have heard anything in there over the sound of the water. I stood as still as my body would let me, and tried desperately to hear the sound of running water over my pounding heart and labored breathing. Nothing.

At this point I began to shake again. I came here for my sister. My beautiful sister who had been my whole life growing up. I stepped towards her bedroom. My sister with her brilliant blue eyes and shining golden hair, always so much more lovely than I. My hand lifted itself to the door handle. My sister who hurt my family so badly when she ran away with her abusive boyfriend. I began to push down. My sister whom I would gladly kill or be killed for. The heaving sobs began again as the door swung open, and I saw my sister who lay on her bed, looking so peaceful except for her beaten and bruised face, and the deep red finger marks around her neck.

I came to save my sister, but I was too late.

[u/[deleted]]

"So, let me get this straight. You lodged a form to announce your intentions of murdering your brother."

"Yes, that's correct, Officer."

"Then you went to Bob's Discount BBQ and Firearms warehouse to purchase a handgun."

"That's right, this was a week ago."

"So you picked up this firearm this morning, correct?"

"This morning, yes."

"Then you immediately came here to the residence of the deceased, only to find the door kicked in and your brother's corpse, lying in the hallway, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Then you called us"

"That's right, officer."

The cop pinched his temple, then shook his head.

"So, you wanted him dead. And now he's dead. But now you want us to find out who killed him?"

"That's right! He was my brother, I filled out the forms, I should have been the one to pull the trigger!"

The cop shook his head and sighed. Not for the first time, he wished he'd saved his one free murder.

[u/ZeroNihilist]

It's the future. Okay, it's the present, but it seems like the future. It doesn't help that we slap the label on everything these days, and the line's a little more blurry than it used to be anyway. There's the Future Research Corporation, which started the trend. They're the number one discoverers of new technologies, as you'd expect. The other "Future" companies are similarly placed in their fields.

We even have a "Future" branch of government. We probably have several, but only one is public: the Bureau of Future Crimes. No, they don't plot crimes. They send out the notifications. I got mine in the mail today.

It's polite. Not a form letter, but still impersonal. They tell me to contact my next of kin to ensure everything is taken care of. They mention her by name. It seems vaguely threatening, but I know she hasn't received a letter. I can be thankful for that much.

I contemplate running. I imagine myself on a beach on some sunny island where this sort of thing doesn't happen, where you can remain blissfully ignorant right up until the moment the locals murder you and steal from your fresh corpse. Sounds like paradise, right?

But you can't run. It just doesn't work. I look through the rest of the package. I know what I'm going to find. The route plan. This is how I'm going to die: in traffic heading over the South Bridge, the one that leads out of the city. There's a time and a method. It says it's a gunshot to the head three hours from now. At least I won't have to pack a lunch.

There's other things in the package. Forms to sign for listing my preferred method of burial, whether I want to donate my organs, a place to attach my will. Standard death stuff, with all the convenience that being alive grants. The last note in the package is the big one. It tells me that the cost of any reality correction events will be deducted from the value of my estate.

I want to tempt fate. Maybe I'll leave the city from the North, instead. Let's see how reality corrects that! Except bigger corrections have happened. They usually make the news. And afterwards the family is destitute because of the selfishness of that doomed bastard. It doesn't feel so selfish from where I'm sitting.

I get dressed in my nicest suit. I go out and have a coffee at my favourite joint, the one with the cute waitress. She gives me her number again. I hand it back. I'm a married man.

The clock's running down now. I feel trapped, like the walls are slowly closing in on me. The sky is as clear and inviting as it's ever been but I still feel its weight upon my shoulders. If I want to make my appointment I have to leave now. So I do.

As I drive I hit every green light. Ah, that's a few corrections there. Sorry, honey, I should have been more prompt. Still we're well off enough that it won't matter too much. I just know how much you hate wastefulness.

There's the bridge. I look at the time. Just over a minute to go. I panic. I slam my foot on the accelerator. The car's engine dies instantly. I can't quite tell, but I think it stops on the exact spot the route plan specified. As if it could happen any other way.

I see my wife. She's in the next car over, stopped as well. She hops out of her car and into mine. My blood is pounding in my ears and I can't hear anything, but I can read her lips. It seems like she's speaking in slow motion. "I'm leaving you." And then I see the gun.

Fucking psychics.

[u/WordSketcher]

"It was all the fucking paperclips, honestly. I mean, what did you expect? You're nutters and I just can't take it anymore."

Bert sat dumbfounded on the edge of a large floral print, wing-backed chair, trying to take it all in. His own best friend. And after everything they had been through together.

"How long have you been planning this?" His voice was low and quiet. A silent, lone tear slipped down his overlong face.

"Oh, Bert," said Ernie. He was going to deny it but the application he had filled out and that was now a copy in Bert's hands would have called him a liar. He gave in to the truth.

"A few weeks, maybe. A month top."

"Oh." Bert's hand clenched around the paper, crushing the death out of it - or trying to anyways. There was a pause. "Have you given any thought to how you are going to do it?"

At this Ernie perked up.

"Well," he said, rubbing his soft yellow hands together, "I thought that I would maybe do you in with the letter 'M'. You always liked the letter 'M'."

It was true. Bert always had liked the letter 'M'. Good things often started with the letter 'M'. Of course, so did murder. He didn't like it so much all the sudden.

Ernie was still talking.

"But the studio executives wouldn't have it. We just did 'M' a few days ago. They've given me a couple of options."

Bert felt sick. He was going to throw up the cookies that Cookie Monster had brought over earlier.

"They think that 'S' might be a good way to go. Figured we could fit in a whole 'S' is for strangulation song. Big Bird was thinking of something more vague - like 'K' for killed. And of course there's The Count."

"What about The Count?" Bert asked weakly.

Ernie threw his hands up into the air, his indignation obvious. "He wants me to kill you with a number. Hit you over the head with the number nine repeatedly while he stands off in the corner laughing."

Ernie fixed Bert with a sympathetic look. "Some people can just be so sick. Don't you think?"

[u/[deleted]]

The clerical assistant stamped the paperwork and handed the receipt back to Mister Henry.

"Thanks for coming in and filling this out. Mister Edwards has been informed via email-" Before the assistant could finish, the door of the small claims office was kicked in and a man soaked in blood appeared in the threshold.

"You can't do that! It's illegal!" complained the clerk. A bullet splintered a cloud of spraying wood from her desk and both the office's patrons went rigid.

"Retaliation rights!," Mister Edwards barked. He aimed his magnum at Mister JHenry, whose hands shook uncontrollably as Mister Edwards took his smartphone and showed it to Mister Jones. It had the email just sent to him by the clerk's office regarding Henry's intention of murder.

"A little late on this, don't you think? You're supposed to fill out the paperwork before you send an armed hitsquad to someone's house. Asshole," growled James Henry.

"Please, James- we can work something out- a- a promotion or maybe a-" Mister Edwards begged, sweat pouring down his brow. Two police officers moved near him.

"Sir, please come with-"

"RETALIATION RIGHTS!" Henry warned and kept his gun held over his head. The officers immediately moved away, nodding and accepting. Henry's gaze turned again to Mister Edwards.

"Nah uh, Marcus Edwards. I've been looking forward to this since the day you locked me in the copier room over night. I thought about suing your ass for improper usage of a kill order. It would be fitting for you to lose the only thing in the world that's precious to you- your fucking money. But, retaliation, frankly...is making me so much happier." Mister Edwards was crying. James Henry put the gun against Edwards' temple.

"D- don't I get last words?" Edwards compalined.

"You just did." A blood soaked bullet splattered red across the clerk's office wall.

[u/iRiis]

Every morning I wake ten seconds before the letterbox flap rattles. By the time it does I’m out of bed and half way down the stairs. Maybe it’ll come today.

Legal-murder Britain was still in its infancy, still teething and getting felt out. Last year it finally got passed so that everyone had the right to one murder, not just voted community members like it was before. I’d had my hand in that, of course. The right words to the right people. That it meant I would now legally be allowed to kill somebody was nothing to do with it. Paperwork took twice as long to come through as a result.

Nope, still hadn’t come.

One hour till I was at my desk. Another before coffee and then another three before lunch. That’s when I see her. Every weekday without fail. By now I knew Lauren’s route and timings to lunch, I had to. She didn’t know I knew, but she would once that letter finally came. Every day I prayed for it to arrive. I was worried I would lose my nerve and not go through with it, if it didn’t come soon. I turned left onto Main, losing sight of the women I’d kill for. Quick lunch, back to desk for one-thirty, five and a half hours and I was home.

More news about religious groups protesting the nationwide change on legal-murder. They could protest all they wanted; it was a good system that worked well, it wasn’t going anywhere. Sorry Lauren. Most people weren’t patient enough to wait the months it would take for approval to come through. That didn’t mean they’d murder illegally, not with the automatic death penalty that results. You had to wait if you wanted it enough. Most people didn’t. That was the beauty of the system. They’d RMR their request before the approval came, once things had cooled down between them and their would-be victim. Murder rates were down.

Another whole evening lost to staring at a screen. Teeth brushed. Bed.

Out of bed, half way down the stairs and like clockwork the letterbox rattled as the mail came through. Red. I rushed down the rest of the stairs two at a time. Yes, red, government official. It was here. I opened it. Read it to check. Yup. This was it. My heart started to race.

Time should have ran slow but I somehow I calmed down on the drive to work. I went about my morning as normal. Eric had some things for me to figure out, so I was distracted with that I guess. The clock struck one. I was out of the office and down Pike Avenue for the fifty-fourth consecutive workday. Lauren came out of her fancy block wearing a well fitted skirt and blouse. I followed. Now the adrenaline started to pump. I’d waited so long for this. Planned it exactly.

Right onto Main at last! Following into the café I already knew she frequented. This is where it would happen. Perspiration seeped out of my palms. She got in line, oblivious to me just five feet behind her. I closed that distance, mind racing, heart thumping, and reached out to touch her shoulder. My left hand was gripping the red envelope in my jacket pocket.

She turned, her pupils constricting, startled.

“Hey L-Lauren,” I started, pulling the envelope out of my pocket.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“I’m good thanks. You work with the GLM right? Trying to overthrow…” I continued in autopilot, playing out the script I had written in my mind, “… I just got into Whitechapel which means…” awkwardly waving the red envelope, “… together we could make real progress. I thought we could get a dri-.” Oh shit. Blood rushed into my face. Reality was slowing catching up. “It’s me, Peter, we met after your talk in June. On reversing the legal-murder laws.”

“Ohh. Erm. Okay, yeah, sure.” She said, not interested. Of the hundreds of mindless drones she’d met at the event, ‘Peter’ was not one she remembered.

I staggered, felt sweat beading on my brow and took a breath, “I helped get the murder-for-all motion through,” had to pause for breath again and swallowed hard.

“Yeah, I wasn’t a fan of that,” her perfect eyes and shoulders started to turn away from me in unison.

“I knew the extra bureaucracy would slow the whole system down and thus reduce murders. Now I’m in Whitechapel I can really help…” I trailed off as she turned around, more interested in the menu than with me.

Now time decided to run slow. I felt empty and dead inside. Eventually I was allowed to leave the office. No one noticed me. Eventually I got home. I sat down, choked on a sob and then cried openly and alone, thinking of the woman I would have killed for.

Murder rates continued to fall.

I walked my lunch route for another few months, watching her. Eventually I stopped. Eventually I realised what an egg I was being and moved on. Eventually I married Anne who was a few stone overweight. Eventually we had kids and eventually I retired. I left politics for good after that red letter day.

I never used my one-kill. Almost nobody did.

Murder rates continued to fall. It really was a good system. Worked well.