The easiest and cheapest way to get away with murder is to not do it at all. Don’t ever speak of it, don’t acknowledge the object of your disaffection, don’t post hypothetical questions on message boards.
Instead, let nature take its course. Chances are, the guy (it’s usually a guy) who is pissing you off isn’t powerful, isn’t well connected, and isn’t filthy rich. If he’s an asshole too–a real asshole–then he’s going to run into bigger trouble than you can afford to generate for him yourself. They say that only the good die young, but more than one of the bad ones has gasped a night or two away with his face pressed into a dirty springless mattress with a Lou Ferrigno clone tickling his lower intestine.
If the guy doesn’t meet that sort of bitter near-end, then you might want to reflect on whether or not he’s worth killing, anyway.
Here’s a true story for you. One night a good pal of mine and a guy I don’t know were walking from a party to a convenience store when some gangster wannabes stopped them, brandished a taped-up stock-sawed shotgun, and demanded their money. My friend gave his wallet up, but the guy with him had a two-dollar bill from his dead father in his, so he only offered the money. Gangster-boy said, “he thinks I’m joking,” and shot him–tried to shoot the guy in the groomies, in fact, but missed and put a load of bird shot into his thigh. A touching story about the victim, his two dollar bill, and his dad graced the local papers, I forget which one. Anyway, he wasn’t in good shape, but he survived. My friend took care of him until the ambulances arrived, and wasn’t mentioned in the article.
But the gangsters weren’t smart enough to finish the job, and my pal had the car description and I think a partial plate number. I worked at a dealership, and had access to DMV records. Other friends of ours had guns–a lot of guns. Others had boats on big deep lakes and the Chesapeake Bay. Others had bags and bags of sack-crete, and old bathtubs and pickup trucks. Some of our distant pals were cops, and lawyers, and relatives of Presidential candidates. We were all outraged, and over the course of a few nights, plans were “hypothetically” suggested.
In the great American tradition of beer-drinking guys we elected to do what comes easiest to us–we drank beer and forgot about it.
And lo and behold, a few months later, my friend visited his brother in jail. His session ended, and as the was on his way out he saw someone’s mother sit down on his side of the wall. He glanced over, and there was the bastard who pulled a gun on him. My pal knew the shooter was in the can–he had been picked up a month or two after the assault and my friend testified against him and the trial was ongoing, but meeting him there under those circumstances was either an act of Province or the prison staff, who often have a fairly sentimental sense of justice.
My buddy crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and leered over the gangster’s mom for the duration of the visit, making near-constant, hostile eye contact with a young man destined for the horrors of the damned in a real prison with real consequences. That last, modestly tender jail-moment was stolen from him, perhaps forever.
And I say, “good.”