Like any author who hasn’t totally given up, I occasionally share excerpts from my latest novel in hopes of sparking interest among folks who’ve yet to read it. (There are only about 14 people on the planet who haven’t purchased 'The Exit Man' yet…. wait, that was just an erotic dream I had.) For those of you who have read the book, consider this post an opportunity to experience some literary nostalgia.
Before we launch into the excerpt, allow me to provide a touch of context. 'The Exit Man' is about a party supply store owner named Eli Edelmann who lives a double life as a euthanasia specialist. That’s right, when he’s not selling balloons and paper hats, he’s helping terminally ill individuals end their life with dignity via helium inhalation. (Don’t blame my parents for the book – I was hugged plenty as a child.) The following excerpt is taken from Chapter 8, where Eli explains how he is compensated for his unique suicide assistance services.
Enjoy!
You are wondering about the money.
I, too, pondered the cash question considerably before ever setting foot in the Dignity Forum that first time. The question wasn’t “What should I charge?” but rather “Should I charge?”
The thought of stripping people of their life and their life’s savings repulsed me. Each client would have survivors to provide for, funeral services to cover, and an array of everyday bills to be paid. Not everybody had an extra twenty grand tucked away for a tidy departure. Not everybody was Sgt. Rush.
Besides, I was aiming to be a true exit artist, not a soulless suicide merchant. I couldn’t allow myself to be driven by financial gain. I couldn’t be about price points and payment methods.
Unless, of course, the client brought it up.
Without me saying a single word or dropping even the slightest hint, I found that nearly every exit candidate I approached asked something along the lines of, “How much would that cost?” during our initial discussion.
Each time the question was posed, I’d play it cool; careful not to blurt out a frightening sum that would end the conversation abruptly, but also careful not to brush the question off entirely to imply I worked strictly pro bono.
“I have no idea,” I’d say, “I hadn’t really thought about it. I don’t want to make this about money.”
Once you get labeled as shady, you are done in the suicide business.
If the candidate pressed on and insisted on compensating me to serve as a facilitator, I would timidly ask them, “What would you feel comfortable paying?” This worked wonders.
It was a “name your price” operation, and I was open to all offers. Have helium, will travel. Whenever I decided somebody was worth approaching, it meant the job was worth doing. Dollars had nothing to do with it.
That’s not to say that lots of them didn’t land in my pocket.
Most clients offered me between $10,000 and $20,000 for my services. Some opted to pay more. Much more. One threw down $50,000 for me to cure his osteosarcoma, insisting that fifty Gs was the going rate for a professional hit. You don’t argue with somebody who has intimate knowledge of the earning potential of assassins.
Not every job was a lucrative one. I administered a handful of exits for nothing or next to it, and was fine with that. I never passed judgment on those clients. How could I? Some simply had no funds due to months or years of expensive treatments and inadequate insurance. Others just didn’t think to offer anything. I certainly couldn’t be upset with them – it’s not like there is any common protocol or accepted etiquette when dealing with suicide assistants. You can find books and websites that touch on how to tip in Fiji or haggle in Hanoi, but you won’t find any that cover how to compensate your friendly neighborhood euthanasia man.
In defense of those who never thought to offer money, there is a fair amount of distraction when you are busy dying. When not consumed by the daily existential angst involved, there are friends and relatives to comfort, bucket list items to scratch off, bosses to verbally eviscerate, and past actions to woefully regret. You are permitted – nay, expected – to become self-absorbed and forgetful at death’s doorstep. And if, in the midst of all you’re dealing with, a stranger approaches to ask if you might be at all interested in having him help you shuffle off this mortal coil, nobody can judge you as inconsiderate or lecherous if the idea of payment never crosses your mind.
Besides, I was receiving more money than I would ever deserve from my higher-rolling, less distracted clients. I amassed a six-figure stash within my first four months. To complain about doing a few freebies now and again would have been the epitome of avarice.
Regardless of payment amount, each and every one of my clients received the exact same level of service and professionalism. Shelling out twenty or thirty grand didn’t get you a premium package featuring a pre-exit massage, a purer form of helium and a gold pendant. It’s not like I wore a tuxedo for those who met a minimum payment requirement, and dirty sweatpants for those who didn’t.
I was an equal opportunity executioner.
If you’re as dark and as deviant as I hope you are and want to read more excerpts from 'The Exit Man,' you can do so here.
Before we launch into the excerpt, allow me to provide a touch of context. 'The Exit Man' is about a party supply store owner named Eli Edelmann who lives a double life as a euthanasia specialist. That’s right, when he’s not selling balloons and paper hats, he’s helping terminally ill individuals end their life with dignity via helium inhalation. (Don’t blame my parents for the book – I was hugged plenty as a child.) The following excerpt is taken from Chapter 8, where Eli explains how he is compensated for his unique suicide assistance services.
Enjoy!
You are wondering about the money.
I, too, pondered the cash question considerably before ever setting foot in the Dignity Forum that first time. The question wasn’t “What should I charge?” but rather “Should I charge?”
The thought of stripping people of their life and their life’s savings repulsed me. Each client would have survivors to provide for, funeral services to cover, and an array of everyday bills to be paid. Not everybody had an extra twenty grand tucked away for a tidy departure. Not everybody was Sgt. Rush.
Besides, I was aiming to be a true exit artist, not a soulless suicide merchant. I couldn’t allow myself to be driven by financial gain. I couldn’t be about price points and payment methods.
Unless, of course, the client brought it up.
Without me saying a single word or dropping even the slightest hint, I found that nearly every exit candidate I approached asked something along the lines of, “How much would that cost?” during our initial discussion.
Each time the question was posed, I’d play it cool; careful not to blurt out a frightening sum that would end the conversation abruptly, but also careful not to brush the question off entirely to imply I worked strictly pro bono.
“I have no idea,” I’d say, “I hadn’t really thought about it. I don’t want to make this about money.”
Once you get labeled as shady, you are done in the suicide business.
If the candidate pressed on and insisted on compensating me to serve as a facilitator, I would timidly ask them, “What would you feel comfortable paying?” This worked wonders.
It was a “name your price” operation, and I was open to all offers. Have helium, will travel. Whenever I decided somebody was worth approaching, it meant the job was worth doing. Dollars had nothing to do with it.
That’s not to say that lots of them didn’t land in my pocket.
Most clients offered me between $10,000 and $20,000 for my services. Some opted to pay more. Much more. One threw down $50,000 for me to cure his osteosarcoma, insisting that fifty Gs was the going rate for a professional hit. You don’t argue with somebody who has intimate knowledge of the earning potential of assassins.
Not every job was a lucrative one. I administered a handful of exits for nothing or next to it, and was fine with that. I never passed judgment on those clients. How could I? Some simply had no funds due to months or years of expensive treatments and inadequate insurance. Others just didn’t think to offer anything. I certainly couldn’t be upset with them – it’s not like there is any common protocol or accepted etiquette when dealing with suicide assistants. You can find books and websites that touch on how to tip in Fiji or haggle in Hanoi, but you won’t find any that cover how to compensate your friendly neighborhood euthanasia man.
In defense of those who never thought to offer money, there is a fair amount of distraction when you are busy dying. When not consumed by the daily existential angst involved, there are friends and relatives to comfort, bucket list items to scratch off, bosses to verbally eviscerate, and past actions to woefully regret. You are permitted – nay, expected – to become self-absorbed and forgetful at death’s doorstep. And if, in the midst of all you’re dealing with, a stranger approaches to ask if you might be at all interested in having him help you shuffle off this mortal coil, nobody can judge you as inconsiderate or lecherous if the idea of payment never crosses your mind.
Besides, I was receiving more money than I would ever deserve from my higher-rolling, less distracted clients. I amassed a six-figure stash within my first four months. To complain about doing a few freebies now and again would have been the epitome of avarice.
Regardless of payment amount, each and every one of my clients received the exact same level of service and professionalism. Shelling out twenty or thirty grand didn’t get you a premium package featuring a pre-exit massage, a purer form of helium and a gold pendant. It’s not like I wore a tuxedo for those who met a minimum payment requirement, and dirty sweatpants for those who didn’t.
I was an equal opportunity executioner.
If you’re as dark and as deviant as I hope you are and want to read more excerpts from 'The Exit Man,' you can do so here.
