The Housewarming Hitman
How I turned bad advice into a masterplan
For as far back as I can remember, I’ve hated people giving me advice. And trust me, my memory goes all the way back to the beginning of humanity. I clearly remember the time when Advice and Suggestion fornicated and birthed a son called Motivation. Since then, my only goal has been to get back at the relatives and friends who dare to advise, suggest, or try to motivate me—even for something as minutely important as brushing my teeth.
I was unwillingly attending a relative's housewarming party when I heard some words slice straight through my soul.
“Get a job and a wife.”
This was the latest gem from an old bald uncle—one I’ve been hoping would die since childhood. His childhood, I mean. He’d tormented my mind so much that I might have taken rebirth just to get back at him.
His voice reverberated through my body like a bad remix. The man had dared to give two pieces of advice in one sentence. I was about to kill him—with words, of course—when my mind cooked up a better plan: make him suffer while he’s still alive.
Why not pass the burden of solving my life back to the old man? If he couldn’t answer, he’d be embarrassed and vanish. For older souls, their advice matters more than their lives.
I gritted my teeth and forced a smile.
“Sure, Uncle. Any references for a job?”
He blinked. His smile faded. His brows creased like old paper trying to think. He looked around at others, hoping for help.
“You know what?” he muttered. “Forget it. It’s hard to find a job for you. So I’ll rephrase my advice.”
He chuckled. “Get a wife—and then ask her to help you find a job.”
Whoa. That hurt. Who gives multiple pieces of advice in quick succession? That should be illegal.
I clenched my fists and exhaled slowly.
“Sure,” I said. “Any references?”
He looked around again and spotted a girl. “I have a candidate right here who might be interested in you.”
Candidate? Since when did marriage brokers start referring to people like job aspirants?
I followed his pointing hand. A pretty girl stood a few feet away, smiling politely while greeting guests. Uncle waved her over.
“Meet Rahul,” he told her. “The male candidate you should marry.”
Then to me: “Meet Neha. The female candidate you should marry.”
And just like that, he vanished—leaving us to bask in the holy awkwardness.
One look at Neha, and I was smitten. She was way more gorgeous than my ex, who’d dumped me for a silly reason: my unemployed status.
“So, what do you do?” Neha asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Nothing,” I shrugged.
Her brows pulled together. “So, do you plan to do anything?”
“Not anything I can think of right now. But marrying you definitely tops the list,” I smiled.
She blinked. I could see the wheels turning in her head, searching for something to say. It felt rude to watch a pretty girl suffer, so I broke the silence.
“Look, I hope you earn well. Uncle suggested we marry, and you find me a job in your company. Don’t worry—I won’t force you… for the job.”
She stared for a few long seconds, as if waiting for me to burst into laughter. When she realized I wasn’t joking, she turned on her heels and marched toward Uncle. I followed, of course. This was just getting fun.
“What makes you think I’ll marry an unemployed man just to help him get a job?” she asked Uncle, her voice sharp.
A few women nearby stopped talking and turned to listen—because drama is free, and snacks hadn’t been served yet.
Uncle cleared his throat. “Look, Neha. You’re already touching fifty. You’ll need someone to support you in your old age.” He patted her shoulder like he’d just solved inflation.
Fifty?! My eyes popped in disbelief. Neha looked twenty-five at most. But I wasn’t even thirty. It was outrageous to expect her to marry someone twenty years younger—but try explaining that to Uncle.
The women looked at him with pride. They looked at me with pity.
My plan of embarrassing Uncle had failed. Again.
I glanced at Neha. Could I really marry someone based on Uncle’s advice? I could handle death, marriage, maybe even kids—but not the constant sound of Uncle bragging, “He got married because of me. He got a job because of me.”
I turned serious. “Look, Neha. Before you agree, I should tell you something important.” I paused. “I’m blacklisted by a hundred companies. You should probably check with your HR before moving forward.”
Neha gasped, flung her hands in the air, and stormed off.
Uncle shook his head. “Couldn’t you hold on to such information till after marriage?”
Ridiculous. How could he expect me to lie? I wasn’t blacklisted by a hundred companies. I was blacklisted by a thousand.
The guests had noticed by now. Neha left without even eating.
So stupid. She could’ve at least packed the food for the ride home. Or better still, gifted it to the needy. Aka me.
Uncle looked mildly embarrassed. But only mildly. He coughed, then turned to me.
“Look what you need to do,” he said, eyes twinkling with unsolicited confidence. “Find a kid first. Impress him. Then find his mother. Ask her to marry you. Then ask her to find you a job.” He chuckled and tapped my arm like a fairy godmother of bad decisions.
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. That was a lot of advice. More than anyone should be allowed to give in one breath.
Everyone around us laughed and went back to the real reason they came—to eat free food.
I wanted to smack Uncle’s bald head with a frying pan and cook an omelette on it. I wanted to shove vegetable curry into his ears, nose, and eyes—just to make his brain stop producing advice.
But then my mind came up with a final plan. A revenge more delicious than the mutton biryani being served.
Uncle’s last advice was meant as a joke. I took it seriously. I spent the next year chasing a kid, impressing him, and eventually convincing his mother to leave her husband and marry me.
Today, that old bald Uncle? He’s my father-in-law.
And yes—I found a job. Courtesy of my angry Uncle and his now-very-employed daughter.
Yesterday, I met him again at another housewarming party.
I gave him what he loves most—advice.
“Always. Always. Keep your mouth shut.”
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