The title, and much of the plot, is a nod to my friend Barry Eisler and his John Rain series. But this is also a satire of the entire hitman sub-genre, where tough guy assassins with exotic pasts follow strict codes and kill in bizarre ways with common, everyday objects to get the job done.

The mark knelt next to a garbage can, two hands unsuccessfully trying to plug nine holes in his face, neck, and upper body. A gambler, late in his payments, with one second-chance too many. I didn’t have all of the details.

Rule #1: Don’t make it personal.

Knowing too much made it personal.

He dropped onto his face and spent a minute imitating a lawn sprinkler—a lawn sprinkler that sprayed blood and cried for his mama. I kept my distance.

Rule #8: Don’t get all icky with the victim’s fluids.

When all movement ceased, I moved in and planted the killing corkscrew in his left hand. In his right, I placed a bottle of 1997 Claude Chonion Merlot. His death would look like an unfortunate uncorking accident.

Rule #2: Make it look natural.

I ditched the latex gloves in the Dumpster and spun on my heels, practically bumping into the bum entering the mouth of the alley. Ragged clothes. A strong smell of urine. Wide eyes.

I reached into the inner pocket of his trench coat, tugged out another pair of latex gloves.

Rule #3: No witnesses.

“Who’re you?” the bum asked.

“I’m John,” I lied.

Rule #19: Never give your real name.

My real name was Bob. Bob Drizzle. I’m half Japanese. The other half is also Japanese. I also have a bit of Irish in me, which accounts for my red hair. Plus some Serbo-Croatian, a touch of Samoan, a dab of Nordic, a sprinkling of Cheyenne, and some Masi from my mother’s side.

But I blend invisibly into all cultures, where I ply my unique trade. I’m a paid assassin. A paid assassin who kills people for money.

I gave the bum a sad frown and said, “Sorry, buddy.”

The gloves didn’t go on easy—the previous pair had left my hands sweaty, and my palms fought with the rubber. The bum watched the struggle, his stance unsteady. I considered going back to the dead gambler and retrieving the corkscrew, to make the scene look like a fight for Merlot gone deadly.

Instead, I pulled out a pocketful of skinny balloons.

“I’m unemployed,” the bum said.

I shoved the multicolored mélange of latex into his filthy mouth, and while he sputtered and choked I blew up a pink one and expertly twisted it into a horsey. I dropped it by his twitching corpse. Street person dies making balloon animals. We’ve all seen it on the news many times.

I tugged off the gloves, balled them up inside out, and shot the three pointer at the open can.

Missed.

“What’s going on?”

A man. Joe Busybody, sticking his nose in other people’s business, watching from the sidewalk. Linebacker body, gone soft with age.

I reached for another pair of gloves. “Sir, this is police business. Would you like to give a statement?”

The guy backpedaled.

“You’re no cop.”

I didn’t bother with the second glove. I removed the aluminum mallet from my holster. That, along with a little seasoning salt and the pork chop I kept in my shoe, would make his death mimic a meat tenderizing gone wrong.

But before I had a chance to tartare his ass, he took off.

I keep in shape.

Rule #13: Stay fit.

Any self-respecting hitman worth his contract fee has to workout these days. Marks were becoming more and more health conscious. Sometimes they ran. Sometimes they refused to die. Sometimes they even had the gall to fight back.

I do Pilates, and have one of those abdominal exercisers they sell on late night television. I bought it at a thrift store, with cash.

Rule #22: Don’t leave a paper trail.

The witness had a head start, but I quickly closed the distance. When the guy glanced, wide-eyed, over his shoulder, I was able to smash the mallet on his forehead.

See ya. Wouldn’t wanna be ya.

The mark stumbled, and I had to leap over the falling body. I skidded to a stop on thick rubber soles.

Rule #26: Shoes should be silent and have good traction, and good arch support.

I took a moment to scan the street. No one seemed to be watching.

I played Emeril on the mark’s face, then put the mallet in his right hand and the pork chop in his left.

I was sprinkling on the Mrs. Dash when I heard something behind me.

My head snapped up at the sound, and I peered over my shoulder. The number 332 commuter bus had stopped at my curb. Right next to the big sign that said BUS STOP.

I cursed under my breath for breaking Rule #86: Don’t kill anyone where people are likely to congregate, like bus stops.

I stared. A handful of riders, noses pressed to window glass, stared back.

The bus driver, a heavy-set woman wearing a White Sox hat, scrambled to close the bus door.

But I was fast. In three steps I’d mounted the stairs and withdrawn a can of oven cleaner from my holster. Nasty stuff, oven cleaner. The label is crammed full of warnings. The bus driver stared at the can and got wide-eyed.

“Drive,” I told her.

She drove.

I faced the terrified group of riders. Two were children. Three were elderly. One was a nun with an eye patch.

Rule #7: No sympathy.

I snapped on another latex glove.

After counting them twice, I came up with nine people total. Just enough for a soccer team.

Perfect.

I removed the uninflated ball and the bicycle pump from my holster. Soccer games got rowdy. Casualties were common.

After screwing some cleats into the bottoms of my thick, rubber soled shoes, I spent a good ten minutes stomping on the group. The nun was especially tough. But I had training. I was a fuscia belt in Jin Dog Doo, the ancient Japanese art of killing a man using only your hands and feet and edged weapons and blunt weapons and common household appliances and guns.

Eventually, even the nun succumbed. Some torn goal netting and a discarded ref’s whistle completed the illusion. Only one last thing left to do.

“Stop the bus!” I yelled at the driver.

The driver didn’t stop. She accelerated.

Rule #89: Don’t attract attention.

This bus was attracting more than its share. Besides speeding, the driver had just run a red light, prompting honks and screeching brakes from cross-town traffic.

This simple hit had become a bit more complicated than I’d anticipated.

“Slow down!” I ordered the driver.

My command went unheeded. I took a Chilean Sea Bass out of my holster. It used to be called the Pantagonian Toothfish, but some savvy marketers changed its name and it’s currently the hottest fish on the five star menus of the world. So hot, that overfishing has brought the Chilean Sea Bass/Pantagonian Toothfish to the brink of extinction.

Beating the driver to death with the fish would look somewhat…well…fishy. At first. But when I planted a deboning knife and a few slices of lemon in her pockets, the cops would get the picture. Just another endangered species taking revenge.

I walked up to the front of the bus and tried to recall if “The Complete Amateur’s Guide to Contract Killing” had a rule about whacking a driver while you were a passenger. Nothing sprang to mind.

Still, it didn’t seem like a wise idea. I tried another tactic.

“Stop the bus, and I’ll let you go.”

That was Rule #17: Lie to the mark to put her at ease.

Or was that Rule #18?

I reached for the cheat card that came with the book, folded up in my pants pocket.

Rule #18: Lie to the mark. Rule #17: Get in and out as quickly as possible.

I’d sure blown that rule to hell.

I shook the thought out of my head, recalling Rule #25: Stay focused.

I put the crib sheet back in my pocket and poked the driver in the hat with the bass.

“Stop the bus, and you’ll live. I give you my word.”

I grinned.

Rule #241: Disarm them with a smile.

The driver hit the brakes, catapulting me forward. I bounced off the front window and into her back. The Sea Bass—my weapon—went flying, which broke Rule #98 and Rule #104 and possibly Rule #206.

Dazed, I sat up, watching as the driver shoved open the door and ran off, screaming.

I did a quick search for the Toothfish, but couldn’t find it amid the soccer massacre. I’d have to leave it behind, a blatant disregard for Rule #47. Luckily, the fish had been wiped clean of prints (Rule #11) and was unregistered (Rule #12) so it wouldn’t lead back to me.

Now for the driver.

I sprang from the bus and saw her beelining for Comiskey Park, where the White Sox played baseball. There was the usual activity around the stadium; fans, hotdog vendors, people selling programs, and no one seemed to pay any attention to me or the screaming fat lady.

The South Side of Chicago; where screaming fat ladies are commonplace.

Doubling my efforts, I managed to catch up with her just as she reached the ticket counter. I took a 1/10,000th scale replica of the Washington Monument out of my holster and pressed the pointy end to her back. She was about to become another sightseeing souvenir victim. But before I got ram the monolith home, the ticket attendant caught my eye from behind the thick bullet proof glass.

I had a hunch the glass was also souvenir proof, and I couldn’t kill the bus driver with someone staring straight into my eyes, practically salivating to be a witness for the prosecution.

So I did the only thing I could in that situation. I whispered to the woman to keep quiet, and then smiled at the attendant.

“Two for the cheap seats,” I said.

I paid, then walked arm in arm with the driver through the bustling crowd. The picture presented to me was disheartening. People were everywhere.

There was no private corner to drag the woman into. No secluded nooks. The bathrooms had lines out the door. Every square foot of space was crammed to capacity.

How do you kill a person in a crowded space without anyone seeing you?

I closed my eyes, trying to remember if this situation ever came up in the book. Rule #90? No, that had to do with airplanes. Rule #312? No, that was for killing a mark in a rain forest.

At times like this, I really wished I’d kept my job at the grocery store. Or bought that other book, “The Complete Amateur’s Guide to Kidnapping and Extortion.”

“Let me go or I’ll scream,” the bus driver said over the pipe organ music.

“If you scream, I’ll kill you,” I answered.

A classic stalemate. It happened to me once before, in the Har Dong peninsula, on the isle of Meenee Peepee, in the city of Tini Dik. I was at a hotel (I recall it being the Itsee Wang), and came upon a gorgeous Mossad agent named Desdemona, who I managed to manipulate by engaging in massive quantities of athletic sex with her. Later, when I sobered up, I realized I’d been duped. Rather than a beautiful double agent from Israel, Desdemona had actually been just a large pile of dirty towels.

I had no idea what that had to do with anything, or how it could help me now.

No other options open, the bus driver and I made our way to the seats. They were in Section 542, way up in the nosebleed part of the stadium.

Even that section was full, fans packed shoulder to shoulder. We stepped on several toes and spilled a few beers wading through the crowd.

“These seats suck,” said the bus driver.

I told her to shut up.

To keep her quiet, I decided to appeal to her inner overeater, and bought two red hots from a hawking vendor.

She took both of them.

Then we settled in to watch the game.

It was the bottom of the fifth, Sox down two runs.

I chose to make my move at the seventh inning stretch. By then, all of the drunken fans around us would get up to relieve their bladders, and I’d be able to off the bus driver and slip into the stream of moving bodies. Then I could…

The next thing I knew, the bus driver was shoving a hot dog with the works into my face, trying to blind me.

“Help!” she screamed, at the same time trying to get her big ass out of the stadium seat.

First one cheek popped free, then the other, and then her big butt was out and shaking in my face.

I wiped ketchup out of my eyes and looked around.

No one paid any attention to the bus driver. Someone behind us even yelled “Down in front!”

I stood and wrapped an arm around her fat shoulders, under the pretense of helping her back to her seat.

Then I jammed the souvenir monument into her throat. Hard. Six or seven times.

An eerie silence settled over the crowd. Then the stadium exploded in screams.

I looked onto the field, wondering if there had just been a spectacular play.

The game had stopped. Instead of baseball players, I saw myself on the Jumbotron monitor, forty feet high, the bloody Washington Monument in my hand.

Oops.

I did a quick scan of the ball park. Thirty, maybe thirty-five thousand people.

This was going to be tough.

I reached into my holster for the roll of fabric softener and the Perry Como LP, and got started.