Imagine, if you will, a hitman being solicited to take out a target for a fee that could be considered handsome, even in this line of business. What if, instead of carrying out his task with the frugal vigor that has become his trademark, he were to go out of his way to find the perfect weapon?
All available resources would be stretched to their limits - but not a penny further - to make a meticulous analysis of the target’s habits, his exercise regime (or lack thereof), his wardrobe (turtlenecks tend to harden the skin around the neck, making it slightly less penetrable) and so on. There would be measuring, charting, mapping out. Every conceivable aspect of the target’s body and the follies it indulges in, are made the object of extensive study.
Imagine then that he would find and purchase a gun that, though by any conventional standard deemed as little more than ‘bland’, would be the perfect gun for this target. The barrel would be designed to give the bullet exactly the amount of torque necessary for this target, allowing said bullet - whose shape would match the distance between two birthmarks with NASA-esque precision - to enter ever so smoothly.
What if the hitman were to send the receipt for his purchase to the mobster who ordered the hit? Could he have any other choice than to be satisfied in terms of proof of death, fully realizing - to the point of actually physically being touched by the realization - that this receipt bares proof of a distance traveled that could never be matched by any vulgar act of ballistics?