I figure it wouldn't cost much to have some gangster put a bullet in my skull, garotte me, or sell me some cyanide or Nembutal.
Verdict: fail.
The building was locked up tightened than a nun's asshole with cameras, concrete barriers, steel gates, etc.
Before I could even figure out where the front door was, some little old man shuffled out and said, "Can I help you?"
"Well, I uh, I i…I have a special problem and I though you might be able to help me."
"What kind of 'special problem?'" His voice suddenly got about 10 times colder and scarier."
Well it's now or never I figured.
"I want to kill myself and I just thought somebody in your…uhm…group migh be able to help me.'l
He stared at me a long time with his beady expressionless old man eyes.
"Go away," he finally said. "Go away and don't come back here. Ever."
I shuffled off, feeling bad. Feeling, if I may, like killing myself.