[ WP ] Federal licences to kill are legal ; registration is so horrible almost nobody has one .

`` Wait, you actually got one?'' Marcus leered at me like I was the first kid in junior high to see a Playboy. But we'd left junior high behind long ago. 
 
 `` Yeah, I got one. Seventeen years later, I finally got one.'' I could feel the envy around me. Everyone knew that it was technically legal to murder someone -if you had a permit. The Department of Justice opened up a new office called `` Homicide & Sexual Violations'' to handle the business. 
 
 See, while it was technically legal, it was also a royal pain in the ass. First up is that name. In the same bill Congress passed allowing `` kill licenses'' as they became known, they passed a nationwide sexual predator registration act. The DoJ hated the kill license part, so they decided to make it all one office. You want a permit to pop somebody? Sure, just go down to where all the perverts have to register. Oh, and hopefully nobody recognizes you standing in the one and only line down there. 
 
 Second, while the DoJ was required to issue permits, they were not required to make it easy. There was only one place you could buy them - the main HSV office in Washington, DC. No internet application, no mail-ins, and certainly no phone calls. You had to show up in person. The particular window for the kill license was only open from 9:00 to noon on Tuesdays. If you did n't make it through the line before noon, they just shut the window in your face. 
 
 Third, assuming you even made it to the window, was the mountain of bureaucracy you had to climb. The DoJ published no guidelines on how to apply. All the forms were hard copy only and had to filled in in triplicate ( no carbon papers here either ). The forms themselves were a morass of contradictory information. `` Name three people of good character who will attest to your requirement for an HSV Type V license'' followed with a hard to see footnote of `` Note: by definition, anyone who agrees with the cold-blooded murder of another human being is not of good character.'' You were n't supposed to Google anything ( like instructions that made sense ) while you were filling in the forms and you were n't supposed to take them out of the building. And if you did n't finish by noon -slam! Sorry, try again next Tuesday. 
 
 A few people got together and decided to fight the power. They would take turns getting the packet and each one would smuggle out a page. That was one page a week for six hundred weeks. They pored over those documents. Underground chat rooms sprung up to dissect the instructions. The Zapruder film never had as much brain power spent on it. 
 
 Finally, the underground crew found a possible solution. They sent in one of their own. He camped out in front of the building overnight to be sure he made it in. At 9:00 on the dot, he was there when the window opened. He took his blue ink pen, medium point as prescribed by the instructions and a head full of techniques to beat the bureaucrats at their own game. Apparently, this guy's daughter got raped and murdered by some rich asshole who got off with two years in a minimum security country club. The guy had a serious hard on for revenge. 
 
 He spent the whole three hours flying through six hundred pages. His hand cramped up, so he switched. He'd been working on ambidextrous writing for months. His pen flew through the pages and ran dry. Of course, there were no replacements in the room with him. But the underground had anticipated thus and stock him up with stationery before his mission. 
 
 Finally, with only moments to spare, he finished. Both hands were curled into claws from the writing. When turned in the package to the bureaucrat at the window, the little man did n't know what to do. Nobody had ever made it that far. It was supposed to be impossible. The NSA had helped craft the instructions to be as obtuse as possible. The instructions included over a dozen words that had n't been used in English since before Shakespeare. But, yet here it was. So the little man accepted the package and closed his window. 
 
 Six months later, after a thorough analysis, Mike Chell was the first person to be issued a legal permit for murder. The asshole that killed his daughter ran and hid behind his family's money of course. Mike decided to wait him out. The rich kid blew his brains out two months later. Mike never got to use the permit because it was only valid against a single individual. The DoJ tried to make it limited time but Congress threatened to cut their budget over that one. The DoJ forgot, however, to make it specific as to the cause of death. Mike was planning to torture that kid to death. I mean, I heard about it later and he was going to do some real dark shit. I had nightmares for a week after I'd heard about it third-hand. I can understand that kid wanting out the quicker way. 
 
 The next guy from the underground went in and found the window closed. The DoJ said they only had one employee authorized to issue the permits and was on vacation. For months. Eventually my they re-opened. The line was around the block now that people knew it was possible. Most of those yahoos would n't stand a chance because they just showed up with no preparation. When an agent of the underground got there though, he was ready. 
 
 They'd changed the forms. 
 
 Every last page was altered. It had been pasted into a automated translator and shifted back and forth half a dozen times. The words were still English and the meaning was in there somewhere but it slowed progress down to a crawl. At first, the underground thought it was all the same forms, just with altered text. They soon found out that every box had moved as well. `` Name'' went from the first box on page one to the third box on page two and was called `` identifier.'' `` Address'' went from the top of page one to the bottom and became `` locale.'' 
 
 It took another two years to crack those instructions. I had been involved with the underground since the beginning. Tommy Westin. That son of a bitch made my life hell in high school. Once I heard about the licenses, I knew what I was going to do. I studied everything I could. I practiced writing with both hands. I followed everything Mike had done. 
 
 Yesterday I got a notice in the mail that my license application had been approved. I'd been waiting almost nine months since submitting my application. I had bought a gun and was at the range with it almost every day. I figured a gunshot was the quickest and surest way to take that SOB out. 
 
 Six months ago, Tommy Westin died in a drunk driving accident. Nobody attended his funeral.
