Christopher Poole
The most compelling autobiography of the decade!
Known throughout the world for years as the deadliest, most elusive killer of his kind, and wanted by virtually every law enforcement agency across the globe, famed freelance hitman-for-hire Henry H. Hugo finally tells his amazing story in his own words. From the traumas and indignities of his troubled childhood, to his early days just starting out in his controversial profession, to his triumphs over all manner of uncommon adversity, the die-hard crime enthusiast will positively thrill to the eclectic, eccentric exploits related in harrowing detail within the pages of this tell-all tome.
Alternately deeply disturbing, darkly funny, and strangely erotic, Mr. Hugo’s unprecedented memoir is a tour de force of violent action, heart-rending drama, unnatural perversity, and strange and colorful predicament, the likes of which the ranks of history’s foulest individuals could not invent.
Christopher Poole is 24 years old. He lives in Dover, NH. This is his second novel.
During a stay in Rome,
towards the end of 1995, I enjoyed a brief romantic affair with famed
art forger Eric Hebborn, though you likely have not heard of him,
dear reader, unless you are one of the connoisseurs he humiliated, or
one of the collectors he fucked over. He was quite ingenious when it
came to replicating the styles of the Old Masters, and quite
unconscionably underhanded and duplicitous in his methods by which he
quintupled the values of his uncanny imitations. Perhaps because of
this, he was also a very arrogant little prick whom I could not
suffer for long, so, in the early days of 1996, I delivered him unto
the street, where the police found him lying facedown, his skull
crushed, and his disposition decidedly humbler.
Before leaving Rome, I
was contacted by a certain high-up in the Vatican regarding a certain
Bishop who was doing a certain something that he shouldn’t with a
certain number of small boys. You know how they do, and you know how
the Church has always preferred to cover these little incidents up,
rather than deal with them in a more prudent fashion they won’t
regret later, when it all inevitably comes out. But, to each his own.
There will always be reasons for people to want to be rid of other
people, and I’ll always be right there in the middle of things,
making a fat profit out of it all.
Of course, I am unable
to disclose the identity of the Church official who retained my
services, as I am likewise disinclined to discuss the fee I accepted
on that occasion. Let’s just say the golden, jewel-encrusted
chalice sitting atop my mantlepiece at home didn’t come from Pier
1.
The year and a half
that ensued was marked by a series of decidedly run-of-the-mill
contracts, but they were nonetheless lucrative, and, whether I was
doing away with a would-be corporate whistleblower in Nevada, a
girlfriend-stealer in St. Louis, or a Washington, D.C. hooker who was
blackmailing a politician-client of hers, I was enjoying myself, as
always. I even got my chance to participate in the ‘96 Olympics,
after a fashion, when one of our boys who fell just short of making
the American team hired me to eliminate his competition, and thus
secure for him the replacement spot. As for ensuring the death of
ailing Chicago gangster “Buzzfly” Marone, that was as simple as
intercepting his future kidney on its way from its donor to the
hospital where Marone waited. Nothing like a shot to an ambulance’s
fuel tank to do a kidney to a turn. I’ll have mine fried, and with
onions, please.
In May of 1997, I had a
close call with Josiah Trent and his FBI cronies at a Renaissance
fair (I like Renaissance fairs, okay?) in West Virginia. They swooped
down on me like a flock of vultures, just as I was being given my
turn at the blacksmith’s, but I took a divot out of Trent’s leg
with the hammer, and escaped by the skin of my teeth.
Because Trent had
spoiled my holiday, I decided to spite my longtime enemy by making my
next job – the assassination of a star witness against the mob, as
it turned out – a much grander affair. So I put a time bomb inside
a plain-looking duffel bag, and snuck it onto a luggage car bound for
the passenger jet that was to convey my target and his federal
babysitters – along with two hundred other passengers, and fifteen
crew members – across the country. (Prior to nine-eleven, pulling a
stunt like that was about as difficult as putting on a hat. I miss
those days.)
The plane exploded in
midair, thirty minutes after takeoff, killing all onboard. I can feel
you hating me for this one, dear reader, but I think my friend at the
FBI got the message; you couldn’t catch me, so two hundred and
eighteen people died horribly. Pucker up and kiss it, Trent.
The very next month, I
was hired to kill a recluse living on a patch of undeveloped land up
in the Yukon, in Canada. It happened, you see, that this man’s land
was rich in undiscovered gold, though I understood this useful
knowledge to be unheard of by the landowner or anybody else, save for
my client, who anticipated the government seizing the land after the
death of its heirless proprietor, and putting it up for auction, at
which auction my client would then acquire the extremely valuable
property at disgustingly little expense.
The final major event
of which I would like to make note is the death of Princess Diana,
who met her untimely demise on August 31, in a car crash in Paris
while fleeing from pursuers reported to be overzealous paparazzi. If
you’re old enough to be reading this book, then chances are you
remember what a horrific mess it all was, and, though I had never
given the British Royals the credit for having the cast-iron balls to
do away with the most troublesome branch on their family tree, I
regret most bitterly that they didn’t come to me for the job,
instead of whichever graceless hack it’s so obvious they took on. I
couldn’t say who was pulling the strings – whether it was the
princess’ conniving ex-husband, her jealous mother-in-law, or some
agents of Israeli intelligence, whose primary target would have been
her raghead boyfriend of the time – but you can be assured, dear
reader, that, if I had been the blunt instrument employed, there’d
be none of this conspiracy speculation ten years on.
But, you get what you
pay for.
